


The Old Astronomer

by beamirang



Series: The Old Astronomer [1]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Found Family, Gaslighting, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Jesse Manes is the worst, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Medical Torture, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, True Love, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, soft boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2019-12-07 00:51:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 95,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18227693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beamirang/pseuds/beamirang
Summary: He’s thought about this moment every day for nearly a decade. Three times now, he’s felt the quiet elation of knowing Alex has served his tour and is back on home turf, safe and unharmed. This last deployment is half the reason Michael couldn’t face him before he left.He’s never imagined this, though. Never figured he’d get the call. He’s always imagined just overhearing it in the bar some day. ‘You hear what happened to that Manes boy? Such a shame.’ He’s imagined all of the pain and none of the right to it, none of the right to mourn.“I’m Second Lieutenant Blackburn. I serve with Captain Manes. This isn’t an official call. It’s a favor, really. But. He was injured in the field three days ago. They MEDEVAC’d him back to base, but - but he’s in a bad way. They’re not sure if he’s gonna make it.”Michael gets a phone call after Alex is injured, and it changes everything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When I am in desperate need for distraction, my brain switches into Hurt/Comfort mode, and Alex/Michael might be the best h/c set up ever.
> 
> Based on the idea that a friend of Alex's might've put 2 and 2 together and come out with Michael, this can otherwise be called the one in which Alex and Michael learn how to love and support each other through thick and thin, current traumas are handled, past trauma is slowly healed and two boys craving safety finally find a home.

There’s a structural flaw in the ceiling. Michael’s spent enough time in the drunk tank to know every spartan inch of it, and in the three long, winding cracks in concrete is a lawsuit waiting to happen.

“If the roof falls on my head and I die with my brains splattered across the floor, I want you, my very best buddy, to sue yourself in my name.”

Max, who is unsympathetic on the best of days, ignores Michael entirely in favor of filling out paperwork. It’s release paperwork, so that’s something, but Max owes it to him to show at least a little concern at Michael’s proximity to potential death.

“How much longer I gotta be here?” Michael asks. The Pony opens in - he squints across the room at the clock on the wall - an hour. “I got places to be.”

“Another date with Jim, Jack, and Jose?” Max doesn’t look up from his computer, but an acknowledgment is all the in Michael needs. He sits up from the bench he’s been sprawled on, rolls the ache out of his shoulders, and leans forward.

“You’ve never given a damn about my love life before,” he says, the taste of vomit and dirt laced with his smile. That makes Max stop.

“I was talking about alcohol,” he says.

Michael rolls his eyes and the world spins on its axis. Too much tequila. Way, way too much tequila. “I know, Maxwell. It’s called humor.”

Across the top of his screen, Max’s eyes narrow. He’s gearing up for another self-righteous lecture, Michael can feel it - he’s got the whole catalog committed to memory by now. “You know I don’t care about that.”

“Humor?” Michael says obtusely. His head is pounding, the world is still fuzzy around the edges, and poking the bear that is Max in a mood is just about the only thing set to bring him any joy this week. “Or drinking.”

“Your love life,” Max says. He knows Michael as well as anyone and can see a deflection a mile off. Michael grimaces and rubs a hand over his eyes. He’s in no mood to have the sex talk with Max. Not now. Not ever, thank you. “I want you to be happy, Michael.”

Michael falls back onto the bench, the back of his palm covering his eyes. “Oh god, I’m not drunk enough for this.”

“I don’t think it’s possible to get any drunker than you were last night,” Max says. “At least not without being taken to the ER. Which, I don’t think I need to remind you-“

“Can someone else process me? Please? I would literally suck any dick in the world that’s not yours, just to get out of this conversation.”

Luck’s not with him. It never has been. Max has a captive audience for his speech, and goddamn if he’s not switching the authoritarian cop voice out for that wide-eyed, obnoxiously fucking endearing look from when they were kids.

“I’m worried about you,” Max says. He circles from behind his desk to stand on the other side of the cell bars, a primped and polished gleaming opposition to Michael, who hasn’t changed in three days and has dried vomit and tequila on his jeans.

His curls tangle as Michael drags a harsh hand through them. Fuck, he needs a shower. He needs a shower and a hot fucking meal and maybe he’s just miserable enough to throw himself on Isobel’s mercy and beg the use of her guest bathroom. Water pressure is to die for.

“I’m fine,” he says.

Max scowls. “You’re about three states from fine and you have been for a long time.” He leans forward, tentative worry replacing the irritation on his face. It’s so much worse when Max is in mother-hen mode. When he’s pissed with Michael - and he’s often pissed with Michael - it’s easy as hell to rile him up, get him off topic, then snooze through the following lecture. When Max is worried, he does annoying things like turn up to the trailer with beer and pizza and tries to get Michael to talk about his feelings.

The only feelings Michael has are annoyance, exhaustion, and totally-fucking-done-with-this-shit. He has three whole feelings. And Max knows how to step on every single one.

“Is this… is this about Alex?” Michael can count on the one hand the number of times Max and he have talked about Alex, and they’ve always ended with them then _not_ talking for at least two weeks after. Max _must_ be worried if he’s bringing Alex into this.

It’s also bullshit. Max says Alex’s name like it’s supposed to mean something. Like it has weight. Like Alex is a good enough reason for Michael to try and drown himself in tequila and whiskey.

“That’s-“ Michael raises an accusatory finger and points it at Max’s face. There’s currently two of them, at least until he blinks, but he figures Max gets the idea. “That’s bullshit. You’re bullshit.”

“He was in town a couple months back,” Max says. And it’s true because even fancy Air Force Men get leave from time to time, and good little boy Alex always comes running when daddy tells him to do something. So yes, he was home, and yes, he came to see Michael, and yes, Michael did hide like a piece of shit coward who can’t stand to see him and not be allowed to hold him.

And fine yes, Michael might’ve been drunk ever since. His liver can take it, and if he drinks enough, his fucked up brain might struggle to remember the way Alex smiles, feels, tastes...

“Aren’t there laws against you torturing people in lock-up?” Michael demands. “Come on, Max, just process me and let me go home and fucking sleep." He can pick up a bottle on the way home and drink in peace.

“Michael-“

Struggling on the narrow bench, Michael still manages to find the dexterity to put his back to Max. He crosses his arms and tries not to move, knowing the chances of rolling off and falling on his face increase with every twitch.

He can tell the moment Max gives in and goes back to his desk, but he still doesn’t turn around. Max can be as pissy as he wants, but he’s the one who put Michael here, so he doesn’t get to sulk about the fallout.

The blast of a cellphone splits the air and startles Michael off his perch.

Max looks up, blinking dumbly before approaching the bag of Michael’s few belongings sat in a tray opposite the cell.

“You gonna answer that?” Michael asks him, beaming his best, most obnoxious smile and trying to think who the hell could be calling him and why. Michael’s not exactly Mr. Popular.

Max opens the bag and picks up the phone. “It’s Alex,” he says, frowning.

The phone shoots across the room, into Michael’s hand.

Alex shouldn’t be calling. He shouldn’t be calling because they aren’t together, they don’t mean anything to each other.

And because he’s in Iraq. Why the hell would he call Michael from Iraq?

He picks up the call, suddenly more afraid than he’s ever been in his life. “Alex?”

There’s a moment of silence, of static, broken by a few thousand miles of distance and heartbreak, and then-

“Michael Guerin?”

That’s not Alex’s voice. The cell door is thrown open and Max arrives just in time to grab Michael’s elbow and steady him. “Y-yeah?”

He’s thought about this moment every day for nearly a decade. Three times now, he’s felt the quiet elation of knowing Alex has served his tour and is back on home turf, safe and unharmed. This last deployment is half the reason Michael couldn’t face him before he left.

He’s never imagined this, though. Never figured he’d get the call. He’s always imagined just hearing it in the bar some day. ‘You hear what happened to that Manes boy? Such a shame.’ He’s imagined all of the pain and none of the right to it, none of the right to _mourn_.

This is worse than anything he’s concocted in his head.

“I’m Second Lieutenant Blackburn. I serve with Captain Manes. This isn’t an official call. It’s favor, really. But. He was injured in the field three days ago. They MEDEVAC’d him back to base, but - but he’s in a bad way. They’re not sure if he’s gonna make it.”

The black hole that grows inside Michael’s chest is the implosion of a supernova. Something bright and brilliant and too spectacular for words has blinked out of existence, and now Michael is caught in the gravity well, being dragged towards the oblivion that waits where life once blossomed.

He’s aware, dimly, of Max taking the phone from his hand, of the ground rushing up to meet him as he slides from the bench, only barely catching himself with a scarred, outstretched hand.

“Michael! Michael!” Max hits the ground beside him, one rough hand dragging him into a hug and holding him tightly. Michael can’t remember the last person to hug him. It might’ve been Alex. Certainly not Max. They aren’t the hugging type.

“Max,” Michael doesn’t recognize his own voice. “Max, I gotta. I gotta get to him. I can’t- can’t-“ Max hauls him up. Drags him out of the cell. For some ridiculous reason, Michael worries about him finishing his paperwork. “What about the-“

“Fuck that,” Max says. That’s something else new. Max doesn’t curse much. Why swear when he can bitch at Michael for swearing instead?

Michael tries to pat his arm in thanks. “Yeah. Yeah. Thanks. Thanks, I’ll come back and sign shit later. I won’t get you in trouble. You can tell them I-“

“Jenna can tell them,” Max shakes his head. He grabs his keys off his desk, still refusing to let go of Michael’s arm. “I’m driving.”

“To Iraq?”

Max squares his jaw. “To Jesse Manes’s place.”

Michael nods. None of the emotions he usually feels when thinking about Alex’s father surface. Right now, Manes is the best way for Michael to get to Alex. The only way, really.

Fuck their history. The only place in the universe Michael needs to be right now is by Alex’s side. If he’s gotta make a deal with the devil to do that? So be it.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesse Manes is such an interesting villain to write! There are so many layers to his awfulness, but the way he justifies his actions in the light of Project Sheppard makes him truly chilling!
> 
> We've still got a couple of chapters before the big reunion - we've gotta get Alex back from Iraq and that takes time, sadly - but I hope until then you enjoy Michael's rapid internal descent into chaos!

Alex’s first tour is Afghanistan. He’s stationed out of Bagram Airfield twenty-five miles from Kabul. He arrives shortly before Christmas in 2009 and within six months, the US presence in Afghanistan numbers over a hundred thousand personnel. Michael, who hasn’t yet learned how to extend his self-preservation to Alex, sets up alerts on every channel he can access, legally or otherwise. 2010 is the bloodiest year of the war to date, with just shy of five hundred US troops killed in action.

Michael doesn’t really sleep for ten months.

The Air Force doesn’t deploy as long as the Army, but Alex is still gone for the best part of a year. When he finally returns, and when Michael eventually gets him alone, he says only ‘It’s classified,’ and if that does nothing to quiet the demand for answers, the look on his face does. It’s the first time he’s seen Alex since he shipped off to Texas for BMT. As much as Michael longs to understand the last few years of his life, that pales when stacked up against the desperate need for quiet he can see in Alex’s eyes.

Michael hates Jesse Manes in that second. More than he’s ever hated anyone or anything. The rage he’s harbored since that day in the toolshed is nothing compared to what fills him when faced with Alex fresh from a warzone. Michael greedily drinks in the sight of him, eyes roaming over familiar, beloved features. He knows Alex is no more a teenager than he is himself, but beneath the surface familiarities, something has fundamentally shifted.

Alex has always had the most open, expressive, beautiful face. The beauty remains, but its no longer fused with sweet, honest kindness. It’s hard. Brittle. Shadowed. He spends a day and a night with Michael, as frantic and desperate as he’s ever been, and though a part of Michael knows he’s going to wake up alone and heartbroken, he can’t deny Alex the tether to life and sanity that he’s so clearly looking for. Michael’s slowly come round to the fact that his heart is Alex’s. He’ll cut it out of his own chest and press it, bloody and still beating into Alex’s hands if that’s what he wants. This - pretending he’s not a second away from breaking as he tries to cling to the brief moments of perfect serenity - is nothing.

Alex returns to base, and a month down the line, Michael hears he’s in Washington D.C. doing important things for important people. He’s not home once in the two years that follow.

In 2012, Alex is deployed to Iraq. It’s supposed to be safer now the war is somewhat officially over. Troops have steadily been withdrawn since 2011. There’s only one fatality all year, but the long months of silence wear him down in different ways. The first time around, there seemed to be a new death every week and Michael surged through the year high on caffeine and adrenaline, each new report fueling a heightened state of mania. Now, with arguably less reason to worry, adrenaline has been swapped out for dread. He waits, constantly on edge, for the day that the fragile hope he lets blossom withers and dies.

Alex comes back from that war with more commendations, more medals, and two shiny bars on his collar. Captain Manes. People say how proud Jesse Manes must be. Michael usually follows those conversations with a night in the drunk tank.

He doesn’t see Alex until 2015. He’s spent much of the last year in Europe, doing more things he probably can’t talk about. He’s in town for three days, and Michael is too drunk for all of them to remember if he sees Alex or not.

He’s back to Washington after that, and by the time he’s back in Roswell again, knocking on the door to Michael’s trailer, it’s been nearly five years since he’s seen him at all.

In 2017, he ships back to Iraq. Michael stops monitoring the news and scouring the headlines.

Alex isn’t Michael’s to protect. He isn’t his to worry about. So long as he doesn’t sober up for long, he can convince his brain that much, if not his stupid, treacherous heart.

And then that phone call.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s luck, more than anything, that has them arrive at Jesse Manes’s home just in time to see the man himself load a bag into his Jeep. He’s going somewhere, presumably to Alex, and the idea of Alex waking up to that monster’s face makes Michael throw open the car door before they’ve come to a complete stop.

He’s not actually been to Alex’s former home since the night in the toolshed. He’s actively avoided it, nausea rolling in his gut just at the thought.

But Michael is no longer seventeen years old. Jesse Manes might terrify him, but it’s a sliding scale of terror, and Alex dying sits at the very top.

Racing with nearly a decade’s worth of pain on his heels, Michael storms up the drive, grabs Manes by the throat, and throws him back inside the house.

“This is your fault!” Manes makes a satisfying crack as he hits the hallway wall. Michael doesn’t need to use his powers, not when rage and adrenaline fuel him. He half expects Max to step in, but his brother simply stands quietly in the doorway behind him, calmly projecting the kind of silent support Michael has never known he’s been missing. “You fucked with his head! He’s only there because of you!”

Some men - some bullies - cower when faced with the kind of violence they like to inflict on others. Jesse Manes isn’t one of them. Michael might’ve taken him by surprise, but Manes meets his gaze with unflinching defiance, neither making a move to throw Michael off, or indicating that he even feels the need. There’s something calculating in his gaze, something condescending. A silent ‘ _oh, you think you can do this, do you?_ ’ It’s a look that reminds him why he is so afraid of Jesse Manes. And why Alex, who is brave enough to still be kind after all of his father’s abuse, is petrified of him.

But Michael won’t back down. He can’t.

It’s Max that breaks the stalemate. “I’m assuming they’ll be flying him back to the US?”

Manes surprises them by saying, “They transferred him LRMC this morning.”

Landstuhl Regional Medical Center. That’s in Germany. Michael knows this because he might, in a moment of panic following the deaths of three Airmen in 2011, have planned exactly how to get there. He’s even got the money for a flight, stashed away and only to be used for this very reason. Germany is infinitely more accessible than Iraq.

If he hauls ass, he can be at Alex’s side this time tomorrow. He has no idea what he’ll say, or if Alex will even see him, but Michael can’t stomach the idea of him waking up, hurt and alone, with no one there to hold him. And he will wake up. Michael refuses to accept any alternative.

Manes barks out a laugh entirely devoid of humor. “They won’t let you within ten miles of him,” he says, reading the intent in Alex’s expression as easily as Isobel might read his mind.

Michael’s thought about that, too. It’ll be a hell of a lot easier to get to Alex now than it would’ve been when he first enlisted. “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell has been revoked,” Alex says, and while he has no plan of outing Alex it does give him more room to work with. “They can’t fucking stop me.”

“And they wouldn’t,” Manes sneers. “They’re all for pandering to the perverted now, just to prove how liberal and tolerant we are.” There’s sweet fuck all liberal or tolerant about Jesse Manes. “But I’m talking more about the conversation that I, as his father, will be having with the MPs. You’re a criminal, Guerin. A sick, twisted man who preyed on a teenage boy’s insecurities to get him into your bed.”

“Hey!” Max jerks behind them, furious on Michael’s behalf. Michael couldn’t give two-tenths of a fuck. He’s been called worse. Hell, the last time he was with Manes, he damn near lost his left hand. A few flimsy insults mean nothing to him, except-

“And what _possible_ reason could Alex have for being insecure?” Michael won’t even argue the fact. Alex _is_ insecure, cripplingly so. Of who he is, of what he wants. Of the idea that anyone might possibly love him. There’s a reason he and Michael fit together so well: they’re two parts of a shattered whole.

“All I have ever done is try to protect my son,” Manes says, flashes of that ice cold cruelty appearing beneath the fracturing surface of calm indifference.

The worst part is that Michael doesn’t need to be a mind reader to know that Manes genuinely believes that.

“Protect him?” Michael spits. “You once beat him so badly he was pissing blood for a week. What the hell were you protecting him from then?”

Manes was never stupid: he rarely ever hit Alex where someone might see and the abuse didn’t end the day Alex filled out his enlistment papers. If anything, it escalated, a violent exclamation point to a sentence that would ensure Alex didn’t so much as walk willingly towards military service, but sprint for it. Just because the manipulation isn’t subtle, doesn’t make it any easier to endure.

The pressure he keeps on Manes’s chest doesn’t ease up. If anything, it grows. Michael’s strong, but he’s not that strong, and he can see the second alarm starts to creep into Manes’s eyes. It’d be so easy to keep pushing. To drive bone through flesh and smear him against the wall like the unpleasant fucking stain on humanity that he is. It wouldn’t be the first murder he’s covered up.

Max’s hand settles on his shoulder, neither condemning nor helping. He’s there and he’ll follow Michael’s lead on this. Absently, Michael wonders what Max’d do if he knew just a little bit more about his and Manes’s history. If it’d been Isobel Manes’s had maimed, Max’d’ve ripped him apart. He knows he’ll never inspire that level of protective rage in his brother, but it’s a comfort to imagine differently.

“I’ll offer you the same deal I offered my son,” Manes says cooly. “Stay away from him, and I won’t bury you in the desert.”

“You really gonna threaten him right in front of me?” Max demands, a level of professional indignation laced with his anger.

Manes roles his eyes from Michael’s face to Max’s with calculated smugness. “I don’t know, Deputy, are you just going to stand around while your criminal friend threatens me in my own home? Bit of a conflict of interest, don’t you think?”

Michael isn’t paying any attention to their conversation. He’s stuck on the one detail of Manes’s threat that sits in the palm of his hand, a long lost puzzle piece rescued from a dark corner and slotted neatly into place.

“You told him you’d kill me?” Michael’s voice rings hollow around the hall.  
  
Manes turns his head back to him. He looks nothing like Alex, and it’s a blessing. “I suggested that he find something else to focus his energy on. The Air Force was his idea.”

“Fuck you!” Michael’s thought about hitting Manes a thousand times over the past nine years - he’s thought about far worse, if he’s being entirely honest - but there’s no joy in the crunch of bone beneath his fist. It doesn’t change anything, and the satisfaction that spreads across Manes’s blood smeared face makes Michael feel small and sick inside.

Manes moves quickly, smart and vicious, and suddenly it’s Michael being pressed against the wall, pain exploding through his head as his cheek is shoved against brick. Manes has his wrist twisted up behind his back, his thumb pressed sharply into the back of Michael’s mangled hand.

“You will never get within a hundred miles of my son,” Manes says, his voice quiet and diamond hard. “If you try, I’ll make what happened that day look like a picnic for the both of you.” Max’s voice explodes behind him and the pressure vanishes. Despite his earlier courage, Michael can’t find the strength to do anything but slide down the wall as Manes dusts himself down and pauses in the doorway. “You boys can show yourselves out.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brb, currently dying over the gauntlet of emotions that follow last night's episode.

The first time they almost kiss, Michael is warm and dry and safe for the first time in what feels like forever. He’s spent the night in the toolshed, curled up under a pile of blankets that smell like Alex. He’s already looked around, scoped out possible escape routes and hazards, and while the one entrance and exit makes him nervous, there’s a window he can climb out of if really necessary. He leaves the tools alone and tries not to think too hard about the first aid kit that’s stocked under the bed, the half-empty bottle of painkillers, or the small stash of non-perishable foods.

The first time they almost kiss, Michael has Alex’s gentle smile warming his bones and the inescapable weight of his presence at his side. Alex seems to believe that people can be kind and good and compassionate, but Michael knows better. There’s always a cost.

The first time they almost kiss, Michael has no idea if he wants it or not. He does, quite desperately, but it might also mean that Alex’s kindness comes with conditions and the idea of tarnishing the perfect image of him that Michael has built in his heart scares him more than almost anything. So he pulls back, reads the disappointment in Alex’s expression with a pang of heartbreak, and starts to play. Alex doesn’t kick him out. Doesn’t try to kiss him again. Michael loses himself in the music, his mind quiet and his heart light.

By the time he pulls himself back to the real world, Alex has tucked his legs under himself and fallen asleep, curled into the tight space at the head of the bunk. He’s more guarded in sleep than he is when he’s awake. A different kind of armor than the piercings and eyeliner. His arms wrap around himself and his chin is tucked low and Michael wonders just how many times Alex actually comes out here. He wonders what it means when Alex says ‘gets bad’.

Michael sets the guitar down reverently. It’s the most expensive thing he’s ever held and while he knows all three of Alex’s older brothers are enlisted, Michael can’t imagine ever leaving such a beautiful instrument behind.

Michael’s never struggled with his sexuality. Stacked up against all the legitimate worries he has - if he’s going to get a meal that day, or where he’s going to sleep, or if someone from the government is going to vivisect him and his siblings - knowing he’s not attracted to a specific gender has never really ranked very high on the list. He knows Alex is a lot of the things he finds attractive: he’s painfully pretty, strong and stubborn and smart. He looks soft, like his skin will feel like silk and his hair like velvet and that touching him is an invitation to wrap himself in something tender and gentle and that doesn’t hurt.

Conversely, for every fantasy he has of gentle lovemaking, he's got as many where he wants to hear Alex scream his name. He’s fairly sure Alex is a virgin, and while Michael hasn’t been with a guy before, he has had sex, and he’s pretty good at making the person he’s with feel special. He wants to do that with Alex. He wants to press him down into the thin mattress and learn all the things that make him moan.

Tomorrow.

He doesn’t want to wake Alex up, so tucks the blanket that’s folded at the bottom of the bed up around him as gently as he can. It’s a small bunk, only really big enough for two people if they’re intimate, but Michael is used to making do. He spreads his jacket out over his chest, tucks his feet beside Alex, and curls into the remaining space.

In the morning, Alex is gone. The blanket is wrapped around Michael, and on the shelf by the door, there’s a plate of hot buttered toast, a glass of orange juice, and his spare clothes, clean, neatly folded and still warm from the dryer.

 

* * *

 

  
Michael has no idea how they make it to Isobel’s house. One minute he’s on the floor of Jesse Manes’s hallway, the next Max is dumping him on their sister’s couch. A mug of coffee is thrust into his trembling hands, and Michael is suddenly bracketed on each side. Izzy loops one of her arms through his and Max sets a hand on his shoulder, strong and supporting.

“So,” Izzy says, “Alex Manes, huh? Did you know about this?” It’s Max she asks that question to, and Michael forces himself to pay attention.

“I knew it was a thing,” Max says slowly. “I didn’t know how _much_ of a thing. How long have you guys been…”

That last part is directed at him. Michael shakes the cobwebs from his head and laughs mirthlessly. “Depends how you wanna look at it,” he says. “Either eight and a half days, or nine years.” He rubs the back of his scarred hand absently, fingers twitching, still trying to straighten out after all these years.

It’s bullshit when he says it out loud. Bullshit, and pathetic, and it says everything about how fucked in the head Michael really is. One act of kindness from a pretty boy a lifetime ago, and he’s pined for Alex like an abandoned puppy ever since. One night of bliss and belonging, and he’s Alex’s, heart and soul.

It’s pretty clear he’s never been more than a passing distraction for Alex.

Only… only if Jesse Manes threatening Michael _is_ what pushed Alex into enlisting…

Any joy he might feel at the idea of someone loving him enough to put him first, before anything, is soured by the knowledge that Alex has been to war, and it’s apparently because of Michael.

He waits for Izzy and Max to laugh. To mock his stupid, hopeless crush, but Isobel merely tightens her hold on his arm. “How did you guys even… I don’t remember you being friends?”

“We weren’t, not really. But he caught me sleeping out the back of my truck and told me I could crash in his toolshed. It was fucking cold at night, so I took him up on it.”

Max looks stricken. “I don’t know if it’s worse that you were sleeping in your truck, or that you felt the only option you had was to stay in a stranger’s shed.” There’s the usual telepathic twin bullshit happening over the top of Michael’s head, and the last thing he wants from either of them is pity.

It’s just… he’s been longing to talk about Alex with someone. He wants to tell Izzy about the boy he’s been crushing on since high school. He wants to tell Max how kind and gentle Alex is, and how happy Michael feels when they’re together. The floodgates have opened, and there’s no holding back the tide.

He tells them everything. Mostly everything. About that first night, and the one that followed. He tells them about Alex coming back to him after Afghanistan, ghosts in his eyes and fire under his skin. He tells them why he’s spent the last decade terrified every time he turns on the radio, and thinking himself a fraud for feeling that way. He tells them that he thinks he remembers Alex picking him up off the floor of his trailer, and putting him to bed. That sometimes he can feel the phantom of a hand running through his hair, and the whisper of a kiss against his forehead. He tells them that dreamlike, drunken confusion might be the last memory he’ll have of Alex because the time after that he was too shit scared to even open his door.

He tells them that he loves Alex, just in case they haven’t figured it out yet, and that no one, not even Jesse Manes, is going to keep Michael from his side.

It’s the most he can ever remember saying to anyone, at least about anything that matters. Max and Isobel stay quiet as the words gush from him in a torrent of emotion. Izzy rubs her hand over his back, and Max does his quiet, stoic brooding, and Michael loves them both so much it makes him ache.

Then, when Michael runs out of steam, Max finally speaks up. “The things Manes was talking about-“ he’s switching into full Deputy Evans mode and Michael can’t help but bristle. “What did he mean, when he talked about ‘that night?’”

Michael drags a hand through his hair and tries to stand, only to be gently pulled down by Isobel. Max is smart enough not to try, because Michael’s always going to let Izzy get her own way, but he’s too jittery and on edge to tolerate someone bigger and stronger trying to force him into doing anything. “Just, just leave it. It’s not important.”

“I’m about to use all my annual leave to fly to Germany with you, so you can be with the man you’re clearly in love with, despite his father threatening to kill you if you go anywhere near him,” says Max calmly. “You gotta give me something, dude.”

Isobel, going breathlessly still beside him, suddenly explodes, “He what?!”

“He was exaggerating,” Michael lies, tucking his hand to his chest subconsciously.

Max isn’t convinced. Max is a pain in the fucking ass. He’s all too happy to leave Michael alone when Michael thinks he’s going crazy from loneliness, but now he actually wants some space, his brother’s all over him like a fucking rash. “I don’t believe that. And neither do you. I’ve never seen you scared like that before.”

There are tears in Isobel’s eyes that send stabs of pain to Michael’s chest. “Did… did he hurt you? Did he…” her eyes widen and slowly track down to Michael’s maimed hand. “Oh my god.” She reaches out with careful, trembling hands, and takes his crocked fingers into her hand. “He did this to you.”

“I tried to protect him,” Michael chokes, unable to hold back the flood of emotion that follows on the wings of those words. “His dad was hurting him, and I tried, but-“ but it was Alex who needed to protect him, in the end.

“You told me you got that in a bar fight,” Max says, his voice small.

Michael tries to laugh and cringes at the sound he makes. “If by bar you mean hammer, then sure.”

“Michael…” the horror in Izzy’s voice is too much for him.

“No,” he snaps, freeing himself from their arms and putting a good few feet of distance between them all. “This? This doesn’t matter. What matters is Alex. Who might be dying while we’re all sat around talking.”

“It matters,” Isobel shouts, “because I’m gonna turn his brain into a slurpee! He hurt you!”

“He took a hammer to my hand because he walked in on Alex and I after we’d had sex. It was shit, but it was a long time ago and -“

The lamp on the coffee table explodes.

They both look at Max in shock.

He’s shaking, and the lamp isn’t the only thing trembling with him. “You told me you got it in a bar fight. I thought it happened because you’d done something stupid!” He knows how little Max thinks of him, but it still stings to hear it said aloud. “Now you’re telling me some homophobic asshole beat you with a fucking hammer?”

Max actually sounds upset. Michael’s more surprised by that than he is Isobel’s threat to liquidize Manes’s brains. He knows she’s not actually going to do anything. Max isn’t either, but there’s something liberating in them both knowing the truth.

“He’s Alex’s dad,” Michael pleads. “And he… I can’t let him be the one Alex wakes up to. I can’t.”

Isobel takes a steadying breath and reaches over to pat Max on the arm. “Do you have a passport?” she asks Michael.

Michael does. All part of his emergency plans to get to Alex if he ever needed to. “Yeah.”

“I’ll book the flights,” she says. “Max, sort your shit out with work.” Max nods and leaves the room, cellphone in hand. Isobel turns to Michael. “Shower. Shave. Do…” she makes an awkward gesture with her hands, “something with your hair. Then raid Noah’s closet.”

“Why would I want to raid his closet?” Michael asks. The shower sounds like a brilliant idea, though.

The look he gets from his sister is at once fond and horrified. “We’re about to embark on an epic round the world trip to reunite you with your one true love, Michael. You’re not rocking up looking like you’ve spent the last decade sleeping on the floor of a bar.”

“Hey! I’ve never fallen asleep on the floor of a bar.” Passed out on the floor of a bar, maybe…

“Go!” she says, pointing towards the bathroom.

“I’ve got money. For the flight-“

She shakes her head. “Consider it the first installment of the ‘ _I’m sorry your siblings somehow missed the fact that you’ve been in so much pain for the last decade_ ’ repayment plan. Part two involves tailoring.” She’s smiling, but there are still tears in her eyes.

“Iz-“ Michael can’t stand to see her cry. He’s hardwired to want to make her smile and he hates that she’s upset because of something he’s done. “This isn't your fault! I’m okay, really.”

She nods, sniffling back her tears before they fall. “You’re gonna be. You’re gonna be safe and happy and adopt a million puppies with your boyfriend even if I have to fight everyone in the US Air Force to make it happen.”

“Let’s…not? Do that?” The last thing any of them need is to draw the wrong kind of attention to themselves.

Isobel ignores him as she pulls him into a hug. “We’re going to fix this, Michael. I promise.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise we get to see Alex in the next chapter!

Getting to Germany isn’t as easy as movie montages like to pretend it is. Landstuhl Regional Medical Center is smack bang between a half dozen major airports. They're flying commercial, and in the end, Isobel decides it’s easiest to fly from Albuquerque to Frankfurt. It’s a fifteen-hour flight, with a brief layover in Portland, and by the time they touch down, Michael feels like his eyeballs are bleeding. He’s done nothing on the flight but drink coffee, every waking second spent talking himself out of a panic attack. Max, who manages to get them all upgrades by sheer merit of his abnormally long legs, doesn’t let go of Michael’s arm the whole flight, and Isobel guilts him into shoveling down a few mouthfuls of pasta.

When they land, it’s a completely different day to the day they departed and they’re all exhausted beyond reason. Isobel throws her credit card at a town car company and pays the exorbitant fee for someone to drive them the seventy odd miles from the airport to LRMC. Michael, whose German is passable, listens absently to the radio while she and Max sleep, their heads together and their ankles crossed, just like when they were kids.

LRMC sees nowhere near the number of casualties it did only a handful of years ago, but it’s still the largest US Military Hospital on foreign soil, and that translates to a fucking enormous complex of buildings. The central hallway that connects all fourteen buildings is over a mile and a half long. Even so, it’s easy enough to locate the ward Alex is being treated on. The number of acute emergency casualties is small these days, and within moments of Isobel speaking to someone at reception, they are being shown to a large waiting room.

Before they even step foot inside, Michael realizes it’s already occupied.

Jesse Manes is on his feet in seconds.

“Guerin! Hey! Guerin!” An enthusiastic shout of Michael’s name rings down the corridor behind them. Michael turns on instinct, knowing Max is between him and Manes. The man waving at him isn’t someone he knows. He’s also on crutches, a heavy brace wrapped around his right leg. Army, Michael’s brain tells him. Maybe mid-twenties. It’s hard to say: the man’s face is one giant bruise. “Shit, you made good time!” Michael still has no idea who he’s talking to, or how to respond, and he’s saved from worrying when the stranger finally reaches them. The bright, cheerful expression drops right off his face when he sees Jesse Manes. “Master Sargent. We talked about this. Why are you still here?”

Michael is pretty certain he’s seen Manes as pissed as the man is capable of being, and yet there’s a whole new level of rage in his eyes as he’s addressed. “You can’t stop me seeing my son, Blackburn.”

“Your son would happily shit on your grave,” Blackburn says. His voice is friendly enough, but there’s something close to hatred in his eyes. “And I can’t say I blame him. So. You gonna make a scene? Or…”

Michael has no idea where he came from, but a third man appears out of nowhere to stand behind Michael. He’s fucking enormous and Michael is spitefully overjoyed to see Manes flinch involuntarily.

“This isn’t the end of it,” Manes says, his gaze darting to Michael and a sneer pulling at his mouth. Has Jesse Manes ever backed down from anything? Michael would put cash on ‘no’, but miracle of fucking miracles…

Manes makes a tactical retreat, shoving past Max, who is all bit spitting blood he's so angry. The man mountain growls as he goes. Now he’s paying attention, Michael can tell he’s as beat up as Blackburn. What happened to these guys?

“Down, boy,” Blackburn says softly, an edge of teasing to accompany the careful pat he gives the mountain’s arm. Six and a half feet of muscle take a rumbling breath. “There we go. You can break his face next time.”

“I wanna break his face now.” Whoever this guy is, Michael wants his children. He grimaces, then nods sharply to Blackburn before wandering off down the corridor.

“Don’t mind Carlos,” Blackburn says, not taking his eyes off his retreating friend. “It’s been a shitty week.” Grief flashes through his expression, brushed away as quickly as it appears with a bright white smile. “Todd Blackburn,” he says, turning to Michael. “You _are_ Michael Guerin, right? Cos this’ll be fucking awkward if you’re not.”

Blackburn. The guy who called him on Alex’s phone.

“Thank you,” Michael manages to choke out. “For calling. For that, for-“ His head is spinning from exhaustion and from the fragile thread of adrenaline still holding him together. He's psyched himself up to see Manes again, to deal with him however necessary: the arrival of unexpected allies leaves him feeling lightheaded.

Blackburn holds up a hand. Two of his fingers are taped together. “No need to thank me, bro. You’re here for Alex, that’s all I fucking care about.”

Michael still has no idea if that means Blackburn knows that Alex is gay, or that Michael is his… whatever the fuck Michael is to him. The fact that he knows enough to have called says something, but Michael is wary of saying the wrong thing and destroying the life Alex has built himself.

“I’m Michael,” he says, which seems safe enough, “this is my brother Max, and my sister Isobel.” Blackburn nods in their direction.

Max, incapable of letting shit lie as always, asks, “You’re not letting Master Sergeant Manes see Alex?”

Blackburn pulls a face. “Fuck no. Colonel’s orders. Only person outside the unit with clearance to see him is you, Guerin. And, well, like the Docs and nurses and stuff. But yeah.” Michael wants to know why. He wants to know how much Blackburn knows about Alex, about who he is and what Michael might mean to him, but first-

He has to ask. “How is he? No one’s told us anything, and I….”

“Shit,” Blackburn cringes, embarrassed. “Fuck, I’m sorry. He’s….” he runs his injured hand over his face and Michael gives another assessment to his age. He’s young. Early twenties, maybe? “He’s alive. It was touch and go for a bit, but he’s pulled through the latest round of surgery and… I think the words they’re using are ‘cautiously optimistic,” he says.

“What happened?” Isobel asks.

Blackburn hesitates, but it’s Max who answers. “I’m gonna guess the next words out of your mouth are ‘it’s classified’?”

The corner of Blackburn’s mouth lifts up. “Pretty much,” he says, the small touch of humor failing to reach his eyes. “How’d you guess?”

“You said you’re in Alex’s unit?” Max asks. “You’re not an Airman: I’m gonna guess Army Special Forces? Ranger?” Blackburn nods. “And Carlos is-“

“Delta,” Blackburn says.

“Right,” Max nods. “That’s not a combination you get outside of a special task force.” That raises a whole fucking boatload of questions, up to and including: what the hell has Alex been doing these last few years?

“What’s Alex told you?” Blackburn asks.

Max shakes his head. “I haven’t spoken to him in nine years.”

Michael says nothing.

To his surprise, Blackburn snorts. “Yeah, that sounds about right. Real chatty motherfucker, our Cap.” Tension is visibly creeping into Blackburn’s shoulders. “But yeah, classified I’ll about do it. Look, I’ll take you to the Colonel. He can fill you in on all the details. My head’s held together by staples and I'm about five minutes from ralphing on your boots, so—“ he raises an arm, indicating they should follow him. In the span of a heartbeat, he’s gone from being relatively friendly and chatty to looking like he’s going to pass out at any second.

It’s clear which room Alex is in, even from a distance. Carlos is squashed in one of the plastic hospital chairs, somehow managing to look graceful perched on something he makes look like it's been borrowed from a dolls house. He looks up, attention alerted by their approach, then relaxes again when he spots Blackburn.

Opposite Carlos, looking like he shouldn’t be out of a hospital bed himself, an older, imposing man, leans against the wall, his arms crossed. When Blackburn reaches them, something almost imperceptible shifts in the air. The three of them look like they’ve been to hell and back.

“You were right, Colonel. Guess who I just found!” There’s a forced lightness to Blackburn’s voice, something awkward and almost shrill. Carlos shuffles carefully, his knee pressed to the side of Blackburn’s brace.

The Colonel has all of Jesse Manes’s air of authority and none of the cold cruelty in his eyes. He’s not as tall as Carlos, or as extroverted as Blackburn, but there’s something steady and safe about the weight of his gaze. Instinctively, something loosens in Michael’s chest.

“You Guerin?” He’s got a gruff voice, gravely, but unnaturally so. Michael nods. “You made good time. Wasn’t sure if you’d come.”

“I had to,” Michael says, his voice whisper soft. “Alex is…” he’s no way of finishing. Alex is his everything.

The Colonel nods, then angles his head to the door. “Go on, then.”

It seems unthinkable that Alex is so close. That after so many years and so much pain, he’s something so simple as a door away.

“We’ll wait here,” Isobel says gently, giving him an encouraging nod.

“I can show you the best place to get coffee?” Blackburn offers. Michael stops paying attention when Max lights up at the promise of caffeine.

“You’re gonna want to take a second,” the Colonel says, his voice for Michael’s ears only. “It’s bad, and it looks worse.”

Michael is sure he’s going to follow him into the room, but he doesn’t. He lets Michael pass through the doorway, then carefully closes the door behind him. There’s a kindness in that action that Michael will never be able to repay. He knows he’s not going to be able to keep it together when he sees Alex, and the Colonel is giving him the privacy to break down unobserved.

He’s giving Alex the privacy of not being outed because his maybe-who-the-fuck-knows-boyfriend has a fucking breakdown in his hospital room.

Michael takes a breath, follows the sound of rhythmic beeping, and prays his heart will survive what he finds. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm posting again so soon! I've got a deadline for Monday and my editor will kill me if I spend the weekend distracted by fic, so it's post today or wait until Tuesday! 
> 
> I've also realized, as I've tweaked a few future plot points around, that this fic is going to be LONG.  
> So, er, buckle up? :D
> 
> Final note: I've kinda got the tumblr thing sorted, so if anyone wants to hang out, I'm beamirang there as well!

Michael’s actively avoided hospitals his entire life. He’s got an irrational fear that someone’s going to jump him with a needle, or that he might be just standing in a corner and suddenly all the things that make him pass for human vanish and he’s left a little green caricature, bared for everyone to see. When Jesse Manes shatters his hand, Michael knows he can't let Max heal him without raising too many questions, and the same fear keeps him from letting anyone treat him at all. His fear means he has no feeling in three of his fingers and will never be able to straighten his pinkie again.

Now, in a military hospital a world away from the place he feels safest, all his old fears leave him. There’s something he’s more afraid of, and it’s about to face it.

The body on the bed looks nothing like Alex. The soft dark hair Michael loves to run his fingers through is gone, shaved to the bone to make way for a line of stitches that curl around his left ear and up to the top of his head. It’s a dark, messy wound, and it’s matched by a second row of stitches that progress diagonally across his forehead. Below it, his left eye is swollen closed in one bloody bruise, and the mouth Michael loves to kiss is split and scabbed, parted wide enough to allow space for a tube that's connected to a beeping, humming machine.

That’s what causes the first frightened stutter of Michael’s heart. The cuts and bruises are horrific, but he’s seen that kind of injury before - seen milder variations on Alex himself - but the tube means Alex isn’t breathing on his own. It means he’s only alive because a machine is doing the legwork for him.

Trembling, Michael takes a step closer and continues his observation.

Alex is shirtless, and the reason is quickly apparent. There’s a number of smaller shrapnel wounds on his chest, visible even against the violent bloom of color across his ribs. There’s a smaller tube emerging from under a medical bandage just to the left of his sternum. It loops under the bed where a bag is slowly filling with rusty colored fluid. If the damage to his ribs is as severe as it looks, it’s no wonder he’s on a ventilator.

There’s a small forest of IV bags hanging by the bed. There’s a port taped over the back of his left hand and a snakes wedding of lines coiled and taped around his arm, multiple ports and clamps waiting to be opened and closed. Michael’s too terrified of dislodging one, or restricting the flow of any of the drugs to even consider trying to sit on Alex’s left side.

More than that, though…

A sheet is pulled over Alex’s hips, and covers one of his legs. It’s a preservation of his modesty that becomes painfully understandable when he realizes why the sheet isn’t tucked over Alex completely.

They’ve amputated Alex’s right leg, a few inches below the knee.

The invisible strings keeping Michael on his feet snap and he falls sideways into the small chair next to the bed. He can’t think: can barely breathe, and Alex looks so broken, so still, and he might just vanish at any second.

He wants to badly to hold Alex. To wrap him in his arms and vow to keep him safe. Only it’s a bit fucking late for that, isn’t it?

Logically, Michael knows it could be worse. He’s tortured himself with reports of soldiers who’ve lost all their limbs, who've bled out on the battlefield, never even given the chance to cling to their lives. Alex is here, he’s alive, and he’ll heal, he will, he’ll get better, Michael’ll make sure of it, but —

But the grief is agonizing. In Alex’s bloody, mangled form, he can’t help but see the results of the choices forced on them by prejudice and hate. For all Alex has endured, all he’s suffered, all he’s survived, the exterior now reflects pain within. The brutal suppression and theft of his identity reflected in the limb that’s been taken from him.

Could Michael have stoped this? If he’d opened the door to Alex that day, if he’d not been drunk the time before, if he’d found the right words when Alex was in his arms…

Could he’ve stopped this _before_? Before Alex enlisted, before he even started down the path that’s led them both here?

Could he’ve stopped it that day in the toolshed?

He thinks about that day more than he knows he should. He thinks about all the ways it might’ve gone differently, if he’d been faster, or smarter, or if the part of his brain that saw him through a handful of violent foster homes hadn’t switched on the moment the hammer met his hand. He shut down the second it happened, experience telling him that the best option is always to stay down, stay quiet, and to wait the threat out. If he pushed through it, if he fought back—

“It’s not actually as bad as it looks,” the gruff voice of Alex’s Colonel startles Michael out of his guilt fueled spiral. He wonders how long he’s been sat there, staring in horror.

“Looks bad,” he says roughly. It looks like Alex might die at any second.

“The swelling in his brain’s gone down a lot,” the Colonel says, limping towards the bed. Michael stands, offering the chair, but gets a sharp shake of the head in response. “You stay there. He’s gonna kick my ass when he finds out we called you; might as well get the benefit of having you close while he can.”

Michael sits back down. “He’s, he’s gonna wake up.” It’s somewhere between a question, a statement and a prayer.

The Colonel nods. “Yeah, he is. Little shit’s too fucking stubborn to die. They’re gonna keep him unconscious for the next forty-eight hours, give things time to start responding to the drugs. He’ll be back giving me grief about my paperwork by the end of the month.”

It takes Michael a second to realize that the Colonel is speaking in the same tone of voice that he is: that if he wills something hard enough, it’ll manifest into reality.

“Alex’s tough,” Michael says, trying to be reassuring.

“Yeah, he is,” the Colonel nods again. “All my boys are.” That gleam of grief is back. Michael looks at Alex and considers the state the rest of his unit are in, and closes his eyes in sorrow.

“You lost someone,” he realizes.

“Sargent Lance Greengrass,” the Colonel says. “Best damn mechanic in the field. He took a bullet to the neck. Manes tried to stop the bleeding, fuck all good it did either of them.” He’s practical and unsentimental with his speech, but Michael can see the pain in his eyes. These men are close. Closer than a one time op would allow, that’s for sure.

“Jesus,” Michael rests his elbows on the edge of the bed and puts his face in his hands. “Jesus, Alex.”

“He’ll pull through. There’s too much riding on it. You hear that, Captain? You die, and I’ll let Blackburn ouija your ass for the next twenty years. No fucking peace in the afterlife for you, son.”

Michael has no idea why it strikes him as funny, only that the image of Alex’s pained expression while Todd Blackburn talks his ear off is so out of place in this miserable, sterile environment. “I mean, that just sounds like a shit deal,” Michael says to Alex. “I, of course, only flew out to Germany to inform you that if you die I’m gonna get embarrassingly drunk at your funeral and tell your buddies about the mohawk you rocked in sophomore year.” The Colonel snorts. “This is where you wake up and tell me I’m an idiot,” Michael says softly. “Please, Alex, you gotta wake up.”

“Guerin-“

“Why’d you call me? Alex doesn’t - he and I aren’t - fuck. Why?”

“It’s a shit thing, dying alone on the other side of the world. And it’s even more shit being the one left behind, knowing you coulda been there. And you _are_. I don’t know what he is to you, but I’m willing to stake my career that you’re the love of his goddamn life.”

Hearing it from someone else isn’t the same as hearing it from Alex, but it brings tears to Michael’s eyes just as quickly. “Does he ever talk about us?”

The Colonel shakes his head. “Alex doesn’t talk about shit. The important stuff, that mostly goes unsaid.”

“But he told you he was gay.” It’s text now, not subtext, but it still feels strange, saying the words out loud.

“No,” the Colonel says. “Which is bullshit. My boys are supposed to trust me enough to get them home when we’re neck deep in Hell, and he didn’t feel safe enough to tell me something so fundamental to who he is.” There’s a different kind of grief in his eyes, one ringed with guilt.

“Wait, you didn’t know?” After everything Blackburn has said, after the easy way Alex’s unit has accepted his presence, he thought, he assumed…

“Not until Blackburn told me the day we called you,” the Colonel says. “That’s on my head, not his.” The Colonel looks from Michael to Alex. “You hear me son? I don’t give a tap-dancing canary fuck who you love.” Stubborn determination softens the Colonel’s expression before he speaks to Michael again. “Anyway. Your sister’s gone to sort a hotel and your brother’s trying to look polite while Blackburn talks him to death, so, you stay as long as you want. I squared it with RNs: anyone gives you shit, you tell me.” The Colonel waits for Michael to nod before patting Alex’s sheet-covered foot gently.

When he leaves, the door stays propped open a few inches and the soft tap-tap from the shoes of passing staff joins the rhythmic beeps and whirls of the machines in the room.

Emboldened by the acceptance of Alex’s unit, Michael very carefully takes Alex’s right hand. His knuckles are bruised and swollen, his palm hot when Michael presses his own to it. He’s careful, infinitely so, not to hold on as tightly as he wants to.

“You got yourself a good group of guys there, Alex,” Michael says. “They love you. So do I. So- so take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere. I got you.”

He knows Alex is unconscious. He knows he’s drugged to the eyeballs, and the chances of him actually hearing and understanding Michael are small, but his fingers twitch against Michael’s. It’s a tiny thing, as light and fragile as a ray of sunlight through dusty glass, but it’s real. It’s real, and for the first time since getting that call, Michael allows the tears to roll down his face.

Carefully, he lifts Alex’s hand and presses a delicate kiss to the back of his bruised knuckles. “I’m right here,” he repeats himself, “and I’m not going anywhere. No matter what happens. No matter how hard it is. It’s you and me. Just like it’s supposed to be.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I failed entirely at both adulting reasonably and responsibly (or at all) but Alex's POV has been a: too interesting to write and b: really challenging to write. I'm mostly just posting now so I don't sit on it forever and work myself into a hyperactive mess over it :D
> 
> That said, thank you all so very, very much for being so welcoming and friendly! It's an absolute joy to write in this fandom! (now please someone stop me falling any further down this rabbit hole before I miss my deadline for real!)

An explosion of mortar rains down on Alex’s head and the loud rattle of semi-automatic rounds rings from both sides of the conflict. The ability to work through the instinctive terror of incoming fire is something all soldiers have to learn, but Alex’s been forced to take it up a notch and ignore it altogether.

His job isn’t to shoot things - that’ll come later - his job is to hack an isolated, encrypted server from the one terminal that has access. Unfortunately for everyone involved, it's in the middle of a terrorist stronghold, right in the heart of one of the most dangerous cities on the planet.

The computer is in a small, fortified room. The door to it is seven inches of solid steel, supposedly impenetrable. Luckily for them, the walls of the room are less robust, so they ignore the door entirely, and Carlos simply blows a hole in the concrete before joining Blackburn in covering Alex’s six. Carlos is a pyromaniac who has set Alex’s bunk on fire more than once: Alex doesn’t trust him with a lighter let alone plastic explosives, but in a combat situation, if you need something blown to shit, there’s no one better.

“How’s it going in there, Manes?” The Colonel’s voice crackles through his earpiece and a bullet lodges itself in the wall just to the right of Alex’s shoulder.

“Sorry about that!” Blackburn shouts while cheerfully returning fire.

Alex slides into the chair in front of the console. “Give me ten minutes,” he says.

“You got five,” The Colonel snaps.

Five it is.

There’s no intel on the computer that hasn’t been compromised the second the first shots were fired. Everything that might point to future enemy operations will be scrapped. That’s not what Alex is looking for. He’s looking for something a lot less dramatic than troop movements, and a whole lot more valuable.

“Having fun, Cap?” Blackburn shouts as Alex works furiously against the clock.

“So much fun,” Alex says, distracted. “Best time of my life.” Whoever coded this system is one hundred percent bugshit crazy. Give him an afternoon, an hour even, but fuck…

“Hell yeah!” Blackburn’s a few wires short of a fuse and he lives for shit like this. The grin that stretches across his face as he drops down low and reloads is as infectious as it is infuriating. Alex’s already going to have to haul his ass over the coals for reckless behavior earlier in the op, and that’ll lead to some seriously deep and depressing conversations, and that’ll lead to booze, and then-

“Sixty seconds!” The Colonel says, dragging Alex’s attention back to the radio chatter.

“Almost there,” Alex promises, and he is, he’s fond what he’s looking for, or the root folder anyway, and now he just needs time to transfer the data.

“Forty seconds!”

“Does that ever actually speed anything up?” Alex responds, using the last few seconds to check his rifle. From the conner of his eye, he sees Carlos palm a flash bang from his belt. Christ, he misses the desert. He misses the _quiet_.

The computer pings. Transfer complete.

Alex doesn’t bother announcing himself. He tucks his rifle to his shoulder and moves into position besides Blackburn. “Moving to the extraction point,” he says.

“This is fun!” Blackburn announces, giving no thought to the barrage of gunfire that greats them as they hit the main corridor leading from the computer server. “Isn’t this fun?” Carlos gives a rumble of agreement and Alec wonders, not for the thousandth time, how the hell he ended up with these crazy sons of bitches.

Actually no, he knows how. _Why_ is more important. The Colonel came to him for recommendations: Alex’s got no one to blame for his perpetual migraines but himself.

“Cheer up, bro,” the blonde, freckled face that suddenly wanders into his path makes Alex freeze - a cardinal sin in a combat situation - and lower his weapon on instinct. "At least you're not dead yet."

“Greengrass?”

Something’s wrong. Lance is supposed to be holding the perimeter with the Colonel. And he’s sure as fuck not supposed to be wandering through a shootout in board shorts and flip-flops.

The hallway blurs into a hundred different moments, similar enough to ring familiar, but each one fractured and out of place. All at once he’s here, on mission, in the belly of a Black Hawk, crammed into a Humvee, crawling on his elbows across blistering, sandy dirt.

Something trickles across his upper lip. He licks it reflexively and tastes the copper of his own blood.

In his ear, the chatter of a dozen coms merges into one long static buzz, and suddenly the ground isn’t below his feet anymore. He’s in the back of a JLTV, thrown from his seat into a metal roof that’s no longer above him, but below. He’s falling through the air, through nothingness, and then —

_“Alex!”_

_“Captain Manes.”_

He hits dirt, his head exploding into lightening bright points of pain. His vision is nothing but red as he tries to blink the blood from his eyes. It’s everywhere, it’s in his mouth, his nose, but it’s not his, it’s—

He’s on his knees, explosions of chaos all around, and there’s blood gushing through his fingers. No matter how hard he presses against torn flesh, Michael’s still bleeding to death beneath his hands.

Michael.

Michael isn’t supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be home. Safe.

But Michael is here, spilling blood onto a landscape that’s never quite been more terrifying than what Alex has left behind him, until now…

Michael’s hurt. He’s screaming, bones mangled, blood everywhere, and Alex has to save him. He _can’t_ let Michael be hurt, not when he’s only here because Alex loves him, not when Alex is only trying to protect him.

_“Alex!”_

_“Get him out of here!”_

He knows that it’s Michael calling his name, and he knows with just as much certainty that if he doesn’t find him, doesn’t follow his voice, he’ll never see him again. But Michael is no longer bleeding in his arms, he’s far away in the distance, a slight figure on the horizon, lit by a dying sun.

Alex runs. Michael has stopped calling him, but Alex can still see him, and though the tears in his eyes make his vision blurry, he knows all he has to do is run faster, push harder, and he can make it.

He’s closer and still a thousand miles away when his leg gives out from under him. It doesn’t hurt, but he can’t stand no matter how hard he tries.

He crawls instead, fingers bruising and bleeding as they claw at hard, dry earth. Michael needs him, he _needs him_. Alex can’t fail him again.

A pair of boots block him from Alex’s vision, and the small, frightened part of him that used to hide under his bed freezes in panic. But he’s older now, stronger, and the evil that haunts his childhood is both insurmountable and insignificant in this endless, abandoned hell.

He pushes himself up on his elbows and raises his head in defiance.

The hammer slams down hard, and the world vanishes.

 

* * *

 

 

“Alex,” it feels like a second, and a lifetime, and then Michael’s hand slides gently through his hair. His thumb is a delicate pressure against his cheek, and when Alex opens his eyes, it’s to a face he is haunted by. Michael fills the space between seconds, between heartbeats, and Alex _loves_ him.

The stars above them are familiar and comforting, and beneath Alex’s head, beneath the sleeping bag he’s laid on, the hard metal bed of Michael’s truck.

“Michael,” he breathes, allowing himself a familiarity he’s never used before, and drowning in the answering smile on Michael’s face.

“There you are,” Michael’s chest rumbles as he laughs. They’re pressed, skin to skin, and it should be cold out here at night, but the world and everything in it is perfect. “Thought I lost you for a second.” The heavens are a crown of stars atop boisterous curls, and his eyes luminously bright. With the infinite possibility of space a backdrop for Michael’s adoring gaze, Alex feels weightless and cherished, as though Michael has some kind of magical power over the world, and so long as Alex is in his arms, nothing can ever hurt them.

“I’m sorry,” Alex breathes. “I left you.”

Michael leans down to kiss him, but instead of finding Alex’s lips, his mouth presses butterfly soft caresses across his jaw. “I found you,” Michael exhales between each simple act of worship. “I’ll always find you.”

Alex lets his eyes fall closed and gives himself over to Michael’s touch. It’s easy to forget everything outside this perfect space when his own name becomes but a distant memory whispered in a dream as Michael takes him apart with slow, practiced hands. Alex is helpless to resist, eager to find oblivion, and he throws the doors to his soul open wide in the hope that Michael will bring all the starlight in his eyes and find a home there.

The hands that caress him are familiar and loved, but the touch against his skin transcends anything Alex has experienced before. He feels galaxies in his bones. In that second, he’s the centre of the universe and existence orbits around them both. Michael is the key. He holds it all together while Alex threatens to drift away untethered.

“You gotta stay awake Alex,” Michael tells him, his thumb resting in the hollow of Alex’s throat. “You gotta open your eyes.”

Alex tries. He’ll do anything for Michael. But the stars that dance behind closed eyes are no longer the familiar stars of home. They’re stars from the other side of the world. They’re stars Alex feels lost in.

Michael’s teeth nip gently at his ear. “It’s alright. I got you, Alex. You’re safe. Just please, please open your eyes.”

He opens his eyes, and the stars fall from the sky. Without then, the space beyond is one inky black void, and Michael is nowhere to be seen.

It feels like he’s lost in the darkness for a long time, floating in the dark, dimly aware of _something_ , just out of reach.

Then slowly, the world comes back into focus.

The first thing he sees are those beloved curls. Michael’s sleeping, his head resting against stark white sheets, his shoulders twisted and his neck at an angle that’s bound to hurt when he wakes up.

The lightness in Alex’s body has been replaced by a heavy, sodden feeling, and he manages only a few seconds before his eyes slide closed again.

Still, the sense of nearness he feels is breathtaking. It’s almost as though the last decade has been a dream, and that Alex has every right to reach out his hand and play with unbleached ringlets. Next time, he thinks. Next time he opens his eyes again, if Michael is still there, Alex is going to touch him, and he’s never going to be able to stop.

The next time, he opens his eyes and doesn’t have to worry. His hand is cradled protectively in both of Michael’s own.

Alex tries and fails to say Michael’s name, but apparently, Michael understands him anyway. He presses reverent kisses to Alex’s knuckles, no less precious than those his starlit counterpart bestowed, but infinitely more grounded.

Alex feels like he’s been sleeping for a hundred years and could managed to sleep another hundred more, but he’s afraid that if he closes his eyes again, this Michael will fade from reality.

Again, Michael seems to understand him. He reaches up and touches Alex’s jaw, the skin sensitive and heavy with a beard that’s thick and dark and uncomfortable. “Sleep, Alex,” Michael says. “I’ll still be here tomorrow.”

He kisses Alex’s hand again, and Alex trusts him.

He closed his eyes, and dreams of tomorrow. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deadline met! Thanks for the encouragement! 
> 
> I promise this is the last part before the Epic Heart Eyes Reunion. 
> 
> WARNING: there's a brief mention of suicidal ideation in this part. It's not on Michael or Alex's part and it's not a theme of the story, which is why it isn't in the main tags, but I don't want to catch anyone by surprise.

  
Michael’s digging his nails into the palm of his right hand. His left, useless hand, sits on his knee, fingers spread wide by deformity and as numb as the ache in his heart.

It’s been eight days, and Alex still isn’t awake. Michael’s looked for him in the dark places a lost mind wanders, even managed to fleetingly grasp the wisp-like fragments of his consciousness. But Alex’s mind is a wounded, frightened thing, trembling and recoiling if grabbed too hard. Trauma has compounded trauma and now it’s tangled up in there, a void of darkness Michael can only navigate blindly.

All he can do is wait with arms open and pray Alex finds him.

Until then… he’s useless. Forced to watch, again, as Alex suffers.

“Coffee, dude,” a paper cup is shoved at him with barely enough warning to catch it before scalding coffee splashes on his jeans.

Michael looks up into the tired face of Todd Blackburn and raises the cup in a salute of thanks.

“Still not letting you back in?” Blackburn asks, dropping into the chair next to Michael’s.

Michael shakes his head. “Nurses are doing their thing,” he says. He’s torn between understanding and recognizing their insistence of privacy when it comes to taking care of Alex’s hygiene, and bristling at the idea of strangers having such intimate access to his body while he’s unconscious and unable to protest. He tries to make a joke of it and cringes at the sound of his own voice. “How’re you supposed to enjoy a bed bath if you’re not awake for it?”

Blackburn laughs, absently digging his fist into the muscle of his thigh, just above the brace. “No shit. They say anything about…?”

Michael isn’t privy to the details, but he understands there’s an ongoing conflict between the Colonel and some of the Brass over who stays in Germany and for how long. Michael can’t imagine how anyone can ask them to leave Alex behind when they’ve already lost a teammate, but then he’s apparently lacking that military gene. All that has been agreed is that transferring Alex before he's more stable is impractical.

Impractical, they call it. An inconvenience, not a risk to a man’s life.

“Test are all coming back good,” Michael says. “They’re positive, it’s just… a waiting game.” And Michael is shit out of patience. He’s spent practically every hour at Alex’s side, leaving only when physically dragged from the room. He’s even sleeping in the chair, Alex’s hand in his. People don't just snap out of comas, and Alex _is_ improving, but the process is agony.

Blackburn nods. “S’Good. And no one is giving you shit, right?”

“Zero shit,” Michael promises. The opposite, actually. He still doesn’t know how to handle that.

And he’s fairly sure Alex will lose his shit when he hears his nurse tell him what a cute couple they make. Alex’s so far in the closet he might as well pledge allegiance to the flag of Narnia: so many people knowing about him is almost defiantly going to result in a breakdown of some kind.

Michael will handle that when the time comes. And it’s not like no one knew at all.

“How _did_ you find out about him?” Michael asks curiously. “About us?”

Blackburn is quiet for almost long enough for Michael to finish his coffee. Then, clearly having decided whether or not Michael is trustworthy enough to answer, he says, “I’m a Ranger, right? I’m good at it. Real fucking good at it. But it wasn’t my first choice. Or, like, tenth.”

Michael sets his empty cup down and leans back, waiting.

“It was the Army or jail, really. This might surprise you, but I was not always the calm, collected, quite individual I am today.” He grins, and Michael grins back. “Got into a lot of shit as a kid. Foster care blows, but whatever. I joined up: figured its better to get paid to fuck shit up than to do it for free. Two years later, I’m in Iraq, driving down this piece of shit road in the middle of fucking nowhere and bam. Ambush. Everything goes to shit, and I’m the only one who walks out of it alive.” His manic energy is back, the metal brace tapping on the floor anxiously. “Not a fucking scratch on me, and five other guys six feet under.”

“I’m sorry, man,” Michael says softly, and he is. Losing someone is bad enough, but losing everyone? Being the one left behind?

He shrugs off Michael’s sympathy. “No one ever tells you how fucking boring this job can be,” The direction of the conversation veers abruptly. Blackburn grins before taking a sip of his coffee and grimacing. “Like yeah, there’s the cool stuff, but it’s maybe eighty percent sitting around with our thumbs up our asses and slowly going fucking crazy because… well. Because. I don’t handle boredom well. At all.”

“I hear ya,” Michael nods. And oh boy, does he. Boredom is not his friend. Boredom is usually what leads him to the bottom of a bottle of bourbon laced with acetone.

Blackburn nods rapidly at their shared understanding. “Anyway, I was hanging around, waiting for someone to figure out what the fuck to do with me, and it dragged on and on and for-fucking-ever: Brass ain’t fucking fast at deciding anything. So one day I wake up and just think ‘fuck it’, right?” He waits as if expecting Michael to nod. “So I steal a bottle of local moonshine, pick up my service revolver, go out into the desert and plan to blow my brains out.”

Michael chokes on an inhalation of shock. That’s not at all where he’s expected this story to go, and Blackburn’s careless recall is horrific. “Shit,” he breathes.

Blackburn shrugs again and barrels on, unflinchingly unafraid of Michael’s judgement, “I’m sat there, freezing my nuts off and getting fucked on - I still don’t actually know what that shit was - and Manes just walks up and sits his ass down right next to me. I’d literally never met the fucker before in my life, and there he was like something outta a Hallmark movie.”

A pang of longing stabs Michael in the heart. While he’s been taken by surprise by the direction of Blackburn’s story, he can picture the end of it quite clearly. Alex is pathologically incapable of watching someone suffer and not trying to help. The same offer of sanctuary extended to Michael he can easily see being replicated for a hurting, traumatized soldier, and Alex’s innocent claim that sometimes people _do_ want to help with no expectation of repayment rings in his ears.

Michael must be smiling that hopeless, lovesick smile he sometimes allows himself when he thinks of Alex’s kindness because Blackburn starts to laugh.

“Damn, you’re in deep,” he says.

Michael doesn’t deny it. “What happened next?” he asks instead.

“Well, I wasn’t about to eat a bullet with a senior officer sat right next to me,” Blackburn says as if it’s obvious. “I figured he’d come to chew me a new one for going AWOL, or at least give me the ‘it gets better’ speech, but he just sat there and didn’t say a fucking thing.” He rubs the back of his neck, serious now, his voice subdued. “He did the same thing the next night, and the one after that, and the one after that. It took me about a week to realize he’d got people watching out for me during the day as well. I figured it’d be rude to top myself when he was going to all that trouble.” 

In that second, Michael sees something of a kindred spirit in Todd Blackburn, and he knows Alex must’ve as well. It’s that loneliness, that crippling, agonizing ache of wanting - of _needing_ \- to belong somewhere. It’s a feeling Michael battles every goddamn day and one he remembers seeing reflected back at him in Alex’s fathomless gaze.

“Took me about a month before I started to think that maybe I was helping him as much as he was helping me. Alex, he-“ Blackburn chuckles, “he’s gotta rescue every goddamn stray. It’s what gets him out of bed every morning. And it stopped being about him waiting for me to fuck up, or let my guard down so he could mess with me, and it was just the two of us, sat in the middle of South fucking Sandistan in the middle of the night. So I just… word vomited on him. And he didn’t say shit then, either.”

As one of Alex’s ‘strays’ Michael knows exactly how Blackburn feels. Memories of that first night in the toolshed, of Alex sat next to him, not saying a word while Michael plays, rise with perfect clarity.

“Next night, he told me about his dad. About the shit he used to do to him. And why.” Blackburn’s fist clenches. “We sorta took turns after that. We didn’t discuss anything, just sorta talked _at_ each other, and we never asked questions. DADT wasn’t a thing anymore, but we’re still generally shit at not being dicks to gay guys, so he was risking a lot, but…” Blackburn raises his head and meets Michael’s gaze head-on. “He saved my life. And I swore I’d repay him someday.”

“So you called me,” Michael says, marveling how a choice made years ago has led them here.

Blackburn nods. “When we realized how bad it was, I told the Boss. Told him if he had a problem with it I’d get Carlos to shove a grenade up his ass, then told Carlos that if _he_ had a problem with it, I’d confiscate his matches, and then we called you.”

And now Michael has the chance to be here for Alex when he needs someone the most. To maybe start to fix a decade’s worth of pain they’ve let fester between them. “Thank you,” he says as earnestly as he can. Then, because he thinks he knows Blackburn well enough to gauge his sense of humor, and he can see the need to shift the conversation away from something that leaves him feeling so vulnerable, he adds, “He’s gonna be so pissed when he wakes up.”

“Super pissed,” Blackburn beams in agreement. “He’s gonna kick my ass, and it’s gonna be fucking glorious.”

The nurse who thinks he and Alex are ‘adorable’ steps out of Alex’s room. “You can go back in now,” she says with a smile.

Michael’s on his feet immediately. He looks down at Blackburn, who shakes his head and leans back into the chair. “I’m good here. Tell him I’m selling his shit on eBay if he doesn’t wake the fuck up already.”

“You got it,” Michael says.

Sliding into his familiar seat, Michael takes Alex’s hand in his own and settles in for another night of waiting.

He’s there for about an hour when Alex opens his eyes. It’s fleeting - less than a handful of seconds - but it’s all Michael needs.

Now… now Michael can find him in the dark.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 part heart eye reunion.  
> 2 parts angst.

_“-just saying, the offer’s still there.”_

_“We’re in a military hospital_... _There’s no way.”_

_“I know, but-“_

_“You think I don’t want to? You think it’s not killing me to see him like this?”_

Michael. That’s Michael’s voice. Alex has a vague, dreamlike feeling that maybe he’s heard it before. Michael has always been a beacon, a bright light in the window, lighting the way home. The harder Alex tries to resist, the more he struggles. He’s a satellite, constantly orbing Michael’s sun: he can run to the far side of the world, but he’ll never escape. He doesn’t want to. That’s the problem.

He wants Michael. Wants to see him.

It takes what feels like an age, but Alex opens his eyes.

“Morning, sleepy.” It’s not a dream. Or maybe it is. Alex doesn’t care. His eyes are open, and the face he loves most in the world is right there beside him.

“Hmm,” Alex says, trying to wade through the cottonwool fluff in his mind. His eyes fall slowly from Michael’s face, down to their joined hands. Michael’s fingers are laced with his own, something that hasn’t happened since the first time they made love.

“Welcome back, Manes.” A voice to his left makes him flinch. Colonel Nichols. His CO.

His CO is in the same room as Michael, and Michael is holding his hand.

Michael’s left, maimed hand, rests on the bed.

Terror explodes in Alex’s heart. This. _This_ is why he’s supposed to stay a thousand miles away. _This_ is why he’s taken everything he feels for Michael and locked it away behind bars of steel.

He’s spent years trying to protect Michael from the poison Alex spreads to those he loves, and now… now it’s all for nothing.

Nichols is going to- he’s going to-

He moves closer, startled by Alex’s reaction.

A shameful, cowardly whimper escapes Alex’s throat.

“Alex. Hey Alex, look at me!” Strong hands press against his face, firm but not unkind, and Michael’s eyes block out the rest of the world. “You’re safe. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

It’s not himself Alex is worried for. The Colonel is _Alex’s_ problem, just like his dad. Michael isn’t supposed to be involved. He isn’t supposed to be here!

He’s caught somewhere between two memories. There’s sand in the air, hot and suffocating, but Michael’s face and the stark walls behind him are morphing, merging with wooden slats. It’s not Nichols standing by his side, it’s his dad, and Alex can’t move.

His throat feels bruised, each sharp inhalation burning. His ribs scream as his lungs desperately fight for what little oxygen Alex can force himself to take in. Everything hurts. _Everything_.

“Alex, you gotta breathe. Come on, darlin’, you can do it.”

“Easy, son,” Nichols says gently. Michael, Alex knows can be gentle. Michael can be soft. There’s not a gentle bone in the Colonel’s body, so this, this has to be some kind of trick. A trap.

“Please.” He’s not too proud to beg: he begged his father, for all the good it did him. “Please don’t hurt him.” Each word is a struggle, a war against pain and panic, but Alex’ll crawl across glass for Michael if he has too.

Nichols recoils and Michael snaps, “You’re not helping, man. Get the doc.” He doesn’t break eye contact with Alex, his thumbs stroking across bruised cheekbones. His touch is grounding, but Alex still can’t move. Frustrated tears roll from the corners of his eyes and Michael makes a soft, pained sound. “You’re safe, Alex,” Michael says again. “We both are. Look at me. I’m not hurt, see? He’s not here."

“Y’here,” Alex chokes, panic slowly subsiding under Michael's hands.

“Course I’m here,” Michael says, as though it’s perfectly reasonable to expect someone to be summoned by longing alone. “Told you I’d always find you.”

Alex desperately wants to reach out and hold on to Michael, but his arms are so heavy. His whole body is heavy. He manages nothing more than a twitch of his fingers. Michael sees them more than he feels them, and takes one hand off Alex’s cheek in order to lace their fingers together again. It’s such a sweet, intimate, longed for thing that Alex knows it can’t be real, and when Michael kisses his knuckles, his heart breaks for wanting.

“Dreaming,” Alex sighs, and it’s okay if he is. In a life made entirely of checks and balances and cost analysis, the bone-deep pain that throbs through his body is a tradeoff he’ll willingly take for the fantasy of having Michael look at him the way he is now.

“Nah,” Michael says, and he’s smiling so beautifully. “Why’d you dream up my ugly mug, huh?”

Michael’s always been that infuriating combination of self-deprecating insecurity and arrogant swagger. Alex tries and fails to summon up the energy to glare at him. Ugly is the last thing you can call Michael. Alex wracks his brains, trying to think of a word that properly defines everything Michael is. “Pretty,” is what he manages, a word that falls appallingly short of everything Alex wants to express. “Pretty eyes. Pretty, pretty eyes. Green and brown. Brown and green. Breen.”

The laugh that bursts from Michael seems to surprise them both, but it’s the sound Alex most wants to remember when he dies.

“Sweetheart, you are so fucking high right now.” He kisses Alex’s hand again. High makes sense. It explains why words don’t seem to be finding their way from his brain to his mouth. What still doesn’t make sense is why he’s high. And why Michael is here. Or, for that matter, where here even is.

“Happened?”

Michael opens his mouth to respond but is beaten to it by the arrival of a doctor and two nurses. “Welcome back, Captain. My name is Doctor Fraser.” Doctor Fraser is a tall, reedy man with shining red hair and a calm smile. He stands next to Michael. “Mr. Guerin, you’re welcome to stay, but no picking any more fights with my staff, understand?”

“You got it, Doc,” Michael agrees immediately. Behind him, Alex can just make out the shape of Nichols standing in the doorway, and tenses again. Michael still hasn’t let go of his hand.

“You’re in Germany, Captain,” Fraser says. “Landshtul Regional Medical Centre. You were transferred here twelve days ago. What’s the last thing you remember?”

This is officially the first time Alex’s ever lost consciousness in one country and woken up in a second, and it takes his breath away to think of being unconscious for so long. Looking to Michael for his cues, Alex takes in the razor-sharp edge to his cheekbones and the dark smudges beneath his eyes. He’s pale and his shoulders are hunched, and the less said about the state of his curls the better. Still, he’s mostly clean shaven, just a hint of stubble, and his clothes are clean. Someone’s been looking after him, thank god.

“Do you need me to repeat the question?” There’s nothing impatient about Fraser’s tone. If anything, he sounds as if it’s completely reasonable for Alex to need that extra help. Alex hacks satellites. He doesn’t need to be told anything twice.

But what _was_ the last thing he remembers? There’s a lot of jumbled chaos in his head, and trying to focus on any one thing makes him feel sick. “I-“ he blinks, screwing his eyes up hard, as if that’ll somehow help. “We were in Fallujah.” The details of the mission are classified, that much he does remember. He looks warily between Fraser and the Colonel.

Sensing the discomfort he’s in, Fraser says, “I don’t need specifics, Captain. I’m just trying to establish a baseline. Can you tell me the year?”

“2017?”

“Good. And who’s President.”

“Please don’t make me say it,” Alex grimaces. Michael snickers. His eyes really are beautiful. They’re always different, always reflecting something new. Full of starlight when he’s happy and stormclouds when he’s mad. Alex wants forever to know each and every shadow and shade of them. With Michael smiling back at him, it feels like they’re the only two people on the planet.

He misses what Doctor Fraser says and flinches, flushing. Christ, where’s his head at? With a grimace, he tries to brace himself against the bed and sit up a little higher. His left heel digs into the bed weakly, but his left-

He looks down at the sheet covering his lower body. There’s valleys and peaks of fabric, an outline where his legs rest below. Just… not enough of one.

He snatches his hand from Michael’s with a panicked surge of energy and scrabbles at the sheets.

“Alex-“

“I can’t feel-“ he throws them back and stares at what he finds. What he _doesn’t_ find.

Fraser is calm and compassionate and Alex is supposed to be listening, but all he can do is stare in horror at the place where his right leg is supposed to be stretched out. There’s a blue sock that finishes just below where the gown he’s wearing finishes. It covers his knee, and-

“Take a deep breath, Captain-“

Alex doesn’t hear any more. Michael tries to reach him, hold him, but Alex flinches away from him and from Fraser, and from everyone else that wants to touch him. Words wash over him, but they’re muted, underwater sounds, his own name the only thing he understands.

“Alex look at me!” Michael’s never shouted at him like that before and his recoil is so violent it throws him sideways out of his downward tumble into panic. He flinches again, but Michael doesn’t ease up or let him pull away. “Look at me!”

Fraser is saying something to the nurses and the Colonel hovers at the foot of the bed and Alex wants to be anywhere in the world but in this room.

“I got you,” Michael tells him. He’s unblinking, solid and sure and he holds Alex’s arms with hands that feel strong enough to ground them both. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Michael eases him back down and it’s only when his head hits the pillow that he realizes just how much his violent reaction has hurt. He’s lost his leg, but it’s not the only damage. Not by a long shot.

Sudden numbness rushes through his veins as he sinks into the bed, but Michael doesn’t look away. Not for a second. 

Alex desperately wishes he would.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a LOT of talking in this one! Alex is going to need all the naps!

“Did you know that in the Victorian times, they cauterized amputations with a combination of hot irons, boiling water and tar?”

Having sent Michael back to his hotel for a much-needed shower that morning, Alex now has the questionable good fortune of Blackburn for company, and he’s already considering bribing his doctors to put him back in a coma.

“That would suck, man. Shit.” Blackburn has his leg extended out in front of him, a metal brace fastened all the way up for ankle too hip. Alex pushes down a wave of resentment at the sight of it.

“Are you trying to make me feel better?” he asks.

Blackburn grins at him. “It working?”

“Shockingly, no,” Alex says wryly. It’s only been an hour since his last dose of meds, and he’s still caught in that fuzzy place where he has to put extra effort just into thinking.

The kid looks thoughtful. “You know,” he says, and Alex groans before pressing his head back into the pillows and praying for someone to smother him to death, “you can get a hollow leg. You can get a hollow leg you can hide booze in! Holy shit, you’re gonna be a pirate!”

“Where’s Carlos?” Alex asks desperately. “Does he know you’re caffeinated without adult supervision?”

Blackburn scoffs. “You’re literally the most adult adult I know. You made me eat carrots!”

“You ate nothing but Red Vines and Twinkies for a week and a half!” Alex exclaims. It’s actually easier to hack when people are shooting at you than it is when the guy you’re sharing a six-foot bolthole with is vibrating on candy. “You were going to get scurvy.”

“See?” Blackburn points at him. “Adult. And he’s too busy helping the Boss find his head up his ass.” Alex flinches at the mention of the Colonel and Blackburn’s whole demeanor shifts. “No. No, see that? That’s not okay. The fuck did he say to you?”

“Nichols?” he asks. Blackburn nods. “Nothing, why?” Alex hasn’t actually seen him since his shameful meltdown.

“Because fuck him,” Blackburn says. It’s oddly sweet and intensely annoying, but Alex is pretty sure Todd has a bigger chip on his shoulder about Alex’s sexuality than Alex does himself. He’s gotten himself in more fights because of things he perceives as threats or insults to Alex than he has just being his usual dumb-ass self. If he’s got it into his head that Nichols is somehow a threat, Alex’s is going to have to move quickly to stop him doing something stupid. Todd's never been good at respecting the chain of command, but there’s a line in the sand he really can’t cross.

“Dude, take it easy.”

Blackburn pulls a face. “Guerin punched him in the face this morning.”

“He did what?”

Completely oblivious to the horror in Alex’s expression, Blackburn beams. “Thing. Of Beauty. Fucker had it coming.”

“Is he _okay_?”

The Colonel has a far more even temper than Alex’s dad, but there’s a limit to it, and if Michael-

Blackburn frowns, confused. “I think he chipped a tooth? But yeah?”

“Michael!”

“Oh! Yeah, sure! No way was that the first time he’s put someone on their ass.” Suspicion floods his expression. Blackburn is about as subtle as a brick to the face and equally as blunt, so there’s no hesitancy when he asks, “Wait. He’s never hit _you_ before, right?” For all that Carlos is the firebug in their little team, Todd has the shortest fuse of all of them. He’ll flip from liking Michael to being prepared to hate him in a heartbeat.

Alex can barely keep up with his own emotions. And he doesn’t need both legs to kill Blackburn. “Are you kidding me right now?” he demands.

Todd holds up his hands in a gesture of conciliation. “Sorry! Sorry! It’s just, you’re my dude, dude! And what with your dad showing up and-“

“He’s here?” Alex’s heart leaps to his throat and he chokes on it, his eyes darting around the room, half expecting Jesse Manes to pop up from the foot of the bed like some kind of monster. “He’s-“

Blackburn tries and fails to leap to his feet, landing half sprawled against the edge of his bed. “No! Shit! Fuck me in the face with an aardvark! Okay, let’s start again.” He pats his hand awkwardly over Alex’s elbow, a well-meaning but clumsy attempt to soothe the spike of terror he shot into Alex’s chest. Alex glares at him, furious. “So, you nearly died on us. Which, fuck you very much, by the way.”

The anger bleeds from him in seconds. Todd’s always at his most hyperactively destructive when he’s scared, and once Alex stops feeling sorry for himself, the signs are all easy to read. He sighs and tries to smile reassuringly. Blackburn and Carlos and Gre-

They’re his responsibility. He’s supposed to look out for them, be strong for them. “Sorry about that,” he says softly.

Blackburn nods and swallows visibly. “Damn fucking right. But… but it was bad. You were bad. So much fucking blood and everyone was convinced you were done for, so. I stole your phone. As a hacker, you really shouldn’t use your boyfriend’s birthday as your passcode.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Alex says firmly. “And how the hell do you know his birthday?”

“You always have a glass of bourbon for him, and you hate bourbon,” Blackburn smirks.

“I don’t hate bourbon,” Alex protests.

“And he’s not your boyfriend.” Alex adds another tally to the list of things he’s going to throw at his head when he regains some strength. “Look, I’m sorry.” The teasing drops and they’re caught in one of those rare moments when everything between them is deathly serious. Alex has committed every nuance of Todd’s speech to memory, careful to watch for the time he’s just a little _too_ much of something. When his voice is as serious as it is now, Alex listens.

“For what?”

“For outing you,” Blackburn says uncomfortably. “You were dying, and I panicked and I didn’t want you to be alone. I’m not sorry I called him. But. Well… just but.”

“I don’t know why he’s here,” Alex admits, ashamed of how weak he sounds.

Blackburn blinks back surprise. “Dude, he loves you. Like, one hundred percent Nicholas Sparks genre movie loves you.”

It’s a nice fantasy, one given wings by the way Michael held his hand through the night. But the problem has never been Michael. He can accept that Michael loves him, or thinks he does at least. Believing it is harder, but again, not the issue at the root of everything.

For Michael, loving Alex is a death sentence.

And if Jesse Manes is here…

“I still can’t believe you’ve watched Notebook,” he tries to deflect and is met with one of Blackburn’s rare scowls.

“Not what we’re taking from this conversation,” he says irritably. “I’m trying to tell you that we all got your back. The whole team. When your dad showed up, I might’ve lost my shit a little.” He doesn’t look guilty, and he’s probably the only person on the planet who has anything resembling a complete picture of what Alex’s childhood looks like. It’s a lot easier to confess to a stranger in the dark than it is to someone he knows. Michael has direct experience of Jesse Manes's temper, so there’s not a chance in hell of Alex ever adding to that burden, and the only other person he’s ever confided in is Jim Valenti.

“Did he hurt you?” Blackburn’s a mean fighter, but he’s already beat to shit.

“Didn’t get the chance. Second he realized who we were dealing with, the Colonel put his boot so far up his ass I’m surprised he’s not still circling Saturn.”

Alex blinks. “ _Nichols_? Seriously?”

“You’re his favorite,” Blackburn shrugs. It’s a long-running joke that Alex is _everyone’s_ favorite, which is bullshit. “Seriously.”

“That before or after he found out I’m gay?” Alex asks, hiding behind a bitter smile.

“Right, because you being gay suddenly erases the last four years,” Blackburn scoffs. “You think he’d’ve left you to bleed to death out there if he’d known you like dick?”

Alex says nothing. Does he think there are people out there would happily let him die just because he’s gay? He _knows_ it. Does he think the Colonel is one of them? No, probably not, but there was a time he thought his dad was the best man in the world, too. People can disappoint you. And they can hurt you, no matter how much you might care for them. Alex being gay has always been a good excuse for people he loves to turn on him.

“Shit,” Blackburn breathes, dropping back down into the chair. “Holy shit.”

“Not everyone’s like you, Todd,” Alex says gently.

“You know, it’d break his heart if he knew you were that scared of him.”

How exactly can Alex explain that it’s less about fear and more about expectation? “I thought you were pissed at him?” he says instead.

“I’m pissed at everyone!” Blackburn snaps. “All of this is bullshit!”

Oh. Of course. Guilt hits with the force of a tsunami.

“Have they set a date yet? For his funeral?” There’s no need to go into detail. They both know how this works by now.

Todd shakes his head. “They flew him back last week. We’re…. not invited to any ceremony. Maddie's request.”

It’s grossly unfair. Of all of them, Lance is the only one with a family. He’s the only one leaving anyone behind to grieve him. 

Michael… Michael is….

Alex reaches out and pats Blackburn on the shoulder. Nichols is next to fucking useless when it comes to anything emotional, and Carlos will literally set someone on fire before he admits to having any emotions at all. It’s always been Alex’s job to manage the combined levels of volatile they all exhibit.

“Then we’ll hold our own,” he promises.

 

* * *

 

  
Alex sleeps most of the afternoon away. When he wakes up, it’s dark outside the window, and Michael is back in his chair. He comes round slowly, lethargic and heavy.

“Hey.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Michael says, his eyes fixed on a point in the middle of Alex’s chest. “When I got that call, and seeing you in a coma-“ his voice breaks. ‘I’ve never been scared like that before.”

Alex looks at Michael’s left hand, trying to find a balance between the challenge he wants to throw down and the need to not cause further hurt. “Never?”

Their eyes meet, drawn into a connection neither of them can fight. “Never,” Michael says defiantly. “I’ve lived through a lot of shit. But you dying? Nah.”

“Guerin-“

“I’m done letting you pretend there’s nothing here.” There’s no antagonism in his voice. The piss and vinegar defensiveness that always comes out as a challenge is gone. Michael’s sharp edges have been smoothed over, and he simply leans forward, his eyes soft and open. “I love you.”

He says the words so simply, so easily, as if they’re as natural to him as his heartbeat, as if loving Alex really is that straightforward. “I-“

Michael shakes his head. “You don’t gotta say it back. That’s not why I said it.”

“Why did you?” Alex has forgotten how to breathe. He’s forgotten how to exist outside of Michael’s gaze.

“I thought you were gonna die,” he says simply, “and I’d never get the chance to tell you. I never want to feel like that again. I never want to go to sleep not having told you.”

“We barely know each other!” Alex says desperately. “We - we had something when we were kids, but-“

Michael places both his hands over Alex’s, the left on the top. Up close, Alex can’t tear his eyes away from the gnarled, knotted scars and the crooked twist of bone. These are the hands that showed him salvation as a boy, and that continue to touch him like he’s something precious.

“It was stolen from us,” Michael says firmly. “We can get it back.”

Alex pulls his hand out from under Michael’s, taking a hold of those crooked fingers before Michael can take the gesture as a rejection. He strokes his thumb across warm, uneven skin, unearthing the parts of himself that are still tender and gentle, despite all he’s done. Michael’s gasp is little more than an inhale of breath, but Alex can hear the hope in it.

“I’m not the same person I was then,” Alex says. “The things I’ve seen, done-“ He’s not even a complete person anymore. There’s months, if not years of rehab ahead of him, and who knows what his future’ll hold. Michael might be the reason he enlisted, but he’s not the reason Alex stayed. He’s good at his job. He even enjoys parts of it. That’ll all change now, and he has no clue how he’ll fit into the world.

Michael shakes his head. “The first thing you did when waking from a coma was to try to protect me: you’re not that different, Manes. Not in the ways that matter. But you’re right about something.” Alex arches an eyebrow. Michael Guerin, admitting Alex is right. The world must be ending. “We don’t know each other. Not little things, at least, and I am reliably informed that ‘things like that are important when building a solid partnership’.”

There’s no question who Michael is imitating. “How is Isobel?” Alex asks, smiling faintly. He can recall exchanging three whole words with her over the course of their school years.

“Ask her yourself if you like. She’s back at the hotel.”

“Isobel is… here. In Germany.” That makes the least sense of anything he’s heard since waking up.

“Sure. She’s a romantic. She made me change my shirt.” He tugs at the collar of the plain blue sweater he’s wearing. It softens more of those sharp edges and it’s just a tiny bit neat in the shoulders, so it stretches when he moves his arms. Alex wants to crawl into them and never leave.

“I can’t believe Isobel Evans flew to Germany because I got my leg blown off,” Alex says bluntly.

He doesn’t miss the flinch in Michael’s eyes. “I flew here for that. She and Max came because I apparently need supervision.”

“Max is here as well?” Are half of Roswell waiting in the hallway?

“Just them,” Michael says. His shoulders tense, just a little. Alex can’t help but remember how close the three of them were.

Incredulity gives way to relief. “I’m glad you weren’t alone,” he says. He’s no idea how Michael has managed to hold it together these last few weeks. Alex can’t imagine being even half as strong should their positions be reversed.

Michael’s smile is fragile. “You wanna hear my plan?”

“For?”

“Us.”

Us is a word Alex has always been afraid to use. Us is something he can lose. “There’s isn’t an ‘us’, Guerin,” he says, still holding Michael’s hand.

Michael swallows and Alex can see how much he’s struggling. How brave he’s being, putting everything out there with no promise of any return. Michael’s always been the brave one.

“There can be,” he says. “If you want.”

He makes it sound so easy.

“What I want doesn’t matter!”

“It matters to me!”

Alex can’t remember crying since high school, but Michael's emphatic outburst makes his eyes burn. “It shouldn’t.”

“Well, it does,” Michael says sardonically. “I love you. And I’m pretty sure you love me. So. I’m gonna fight for you.”

“Some wars aren’t worth it, Guerin,” Alex says. He knows it better than most.

“You’re right,” Michael nods. “But some of them? Some of them are worth everything.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a little fluffiness to balance out the angst!
> 
> Sorry I didn't manage an update yesterday. It was A Day!

Alex stares at the wheelchair, incredulous. “What are you doing, Guerin?”

Michael kicks on the breaks and straightens his back. “I’m taking you on a date,” he announces. A kaleidoscope of emotions filter across Alex’s face and Michael can’t help the hopeless smile he gives in response. Alex has always had the ability to tear open his heart with just a look and there’s no disguising the flash of want in his eyes.

The walls he’s built are tall, though, and they’re heavily fortified. Michael isn’t lying when he says he’s willing to fight for them, and he’s had the past few weeks to gear up for combat. Alex is unrelentingly stubborn, and he’s had years of hostile environments to reinforce his views on where he fits into the world.

On a professional level, that’s as the cement holding his unit together. By all accounts, these men will follow their Colonel off a cliff, but it’s Alex who figures out how to get down there in one piece.

And on a personal level, it’s between Michael and anything that might harm him. Whether it’s offering him a place to stay, or a way to calm the turmoil in his soul, or if it’s physically standing between Michael and his father, Alex has firmly convinced himself that protecting Michael from harm is the right thing to do at all costs.

Michael isn’t stupid. That’s trauma, right there. No one has ever protected Alex, so Alex feels the need to protect everyone else. Whether they like it or not.

“Doc’s cleared it, so...” Michael holds out a hopeful hand. “You wanna come for a ride?” He gives Alex his most charming smile, and when it wins him a laugh, he knows he’s navigated true.

“You know, if you got me some crutches, I wouldn't need the chair,” Alex says with forced good nature.

“Alex,” for this, Michael can summon limitless patience, “your ribs were in pieces and your head’s held together with staples. Even if the leg wasn’t an issue, you’d not be allowed up. It’s the chair or nothing.”

Alex snorts. “Forever waiting on a first date and now I’m a cripple.” He's smiling, but Michael can hear the ring of pain beneath the bravado. Alex still hasn’t taken his hand, so Michael bridges the gap himself, their fingers entwining.

“I’ll take you anyway, anyhow,” he says, tremulous emotion rough in his voice. His left-hand cups Alex’s bruised cheek, a reflection of scars and combined hurt. Alex leans, infinitesimally, into the touch, and nods.

“Okay,” he says.

Emboldened by that one little world, Michael drops a fond kiss to his forehead before stepping back. “Be right back,” he promises.

Alex doesn't move in the ten minutes it takes Michael to find his nurses. He’s fiddling with the edge of the woolen blanket that’s tucked over his legs, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. When Michael comes back, his eyes light up in relief.

“Morning, Alex,” one of his nurses is a pretty redhead with a short crop of curls to rival Michael’s. Alex has insisted on more than one occasion that they don’t have to address him as Captain Manes, but it’s only the nurses that listen. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m ready to take up tap dancing,” Alex says, his expression a lot softer for her than it can be for Michael. He’s worryingly good at putting on a smile and a brave face around strangers, and Michael fears a time he might start falling for those lies himself.

She tuts in amused disapproval, then shoos Michael out of the room so she can disconnect the various machines Alex is hooked up to. It’s a slow process, but he’s eventually summoned back in and returns to see Alex panting slightly as he settles into the chair, a light sheen of perspiration on his brow.

Michael picks up a couple of blankets from the shelf by the door. It’s a good twenty degrees colder here than it was in Fallujah, so he ignores Alex’s halfhearted glare and tucks one over his legs and wraps the second around his shoulders.

“Thirty minutes, Michael,” he’s told sternly.

“Yes ma’am! You good, Private?”

“Not in the Army, Geurin,” Alex says.

Michael picks up his bag of supplies and takes the breaks off that chair. “Yeah, but calling you ‘Captain’ is giving me all kinds of NC-17 ideas and this is our first date: I gotta be a gentleman.”

Alex’s laugh is more a choke than anything. “Gonna bring me flowers?”

“I thought about it,” he admits, and it’s true, mostly because Max and Isobel spent a whole hour lecturing him on ‘appropriate dating protocol’. “Hospital has rules.”

Alex seems taken aback by the idea that Michael is cool with all the little romantic gestures and Michael smirks. Just wait and see. He’s gonna be the most romantic motherfucker on the planet.

He stops the chair in a small memorial garden at the back of the facility. It’s quiet, and a good little sunspot at this time of day, and there’s a bench he can sit on that puts them both at eye level without Alex ever having to move from the chair. Checking the blankets haven’t moved, Michael then sets himself down and holds out his offerings.

“So we’ve got, um,” he reaches into the bag, “apple juice. Apple sauce. And… chocolate pudding!” It’s the picnic of champions - and toddlers. At Alex’s arched eyebrow, Michael merely shrugs his shoulders. “Hey, you’ve been eating outta tube for the last two and a half weeks. You manage all this without puking and then we’ll talk cheeseburgers.”

“Already planning the second date, Guerin? Confident.”

“How long’s it been since you _had_ a cheeseburger?” Michael asks him. Alex frowns, thinking. “Exactly. I’ll bet you’re willing to put up with my company for an Impact Burger from the Crashdown.”

“Throw in a chocolate malt milkshake and I’m yours,” Alex laughs. It’s the first genuine happiness Michael’s seen on him in years, and in that second, he falls in love all over again.

“It’s a date,” he promises, the last ten years of longing confined to a few simple words. Whatever he’s feeling - that undefinable flurry of emotions - Alex reflects back at him. He’s slowly starting to look like himself again: his hair is shorter than Michael’s ever known it to be, but the bruises and the swelling have started to fade. With the look he has in his eyes, he might as well still be seventeen, his face shadowed with his father’s violence but his expression open and welcoming.

He pops the carton of juice and hands it to Alex, who dutifully waits for Michael to prepare his own before tapping them together in a toast. From there it’s a steady slide into silliness as Michael bursts out laughing and Alex wraps an arm around his ribs. “Don’t make me laugh, Guerin!” he begs, gasping.

Instantly contrite, Michael holds his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay! Serious topics of conversation only. Er… global warming? The rapid decline of the global bee population? Er… the dichotomy of good and evil as presented in early nineteenth century German literature?”

Alex stares at him, then bursts into a fresh round of pained laughter. “Michael!”

Michael’s heart grows three sizes in his chest. It’s not the first time Alex has called him by his first name, but it is the first time they haven’t both been naked. “Sorry! Pudding?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Alex says, but he does accept the pudding. His collarbones are sharp through the thin fabric of the hospital gown and Michael mentally calculates how much extra pudding he can swipe from the canteen.

“The word you’re looking for is ‘endearing’,” he says.

Spoon in mouth, Alex gives him a patronizing nod. “Uh huh.”

Multitasking isn’t Alex’s strong suit right now. Michael’s done a lot of reading while he’s been on his bedside vigil, mostly into rehab for amputees, but also in TBIs. Alex’s head injury seems minor when stacked against the loss of his leg, but it’s likely to cause an equal number of obstacles. It’ll take time to heal, months really, and the symptoms can even last years. Right now, the easiest concession to make is to let the conversation lapse into an easy silence while Alex slowly eats.

Just being in his company is enough for Michael. Here, under the sun, he can close his eyes and feel Alex’s presence beside him, and imagine that the last years never happened.

When Alex lowers his spoon to take a break, he smiles wistfully. “This is nice.”

“Not the most exciting first date,” Michael says a little self consciously, “but I don’t have much in the way of comparison. Or, well. Anything in the way of comparison.”

Alex looks at him with open curiosity. “You’re telling me you’ve never dated anyone?”

“Drunken hookups in the Wild Pony parking lot,” Michael shrugs. “Wasn’t like I've ever been short of company, but…” he lets the words hang, searching Alex’s face for disgust or disapproval and finding only understanding. “What about you? Lotta hot guys in uniform…” he wiggles his eyebrows playfully.

“I was a closeted gay man in the Military,” Alex says slowly. “DADT was repealed a couple of years after I enlisted, but it didn’t mean people’s attitudes changed overnight. I’d finally got to a place where I wasn’t getting the shit kicked out of me on a daily basis, so… I wasn’t in a rush to risk that. First first dates all round.”

Michael feels his jaw drop. ”So wait, no one?”

“I didn’t say that,” Alex pulls a face. “There were a couple of ‘holy shit we nearly died’ fumbles, a week long thing with a crazy Australian sniper while we were both at a conference in Brussels, and -“ his expression lights up mischievously, “then Blackburn got it into his head that I’d be more likely to overlook his reckless stupidity if I got laid more, and dragged me to every gay nightclub in London.”

Michael has a sudden flash of Alex under neon lights, moving in time to a frantic beat, and can’t decide if it’s the most surreal thing he’s imagined or the hottest. Alex isn’t a nightclub kind of guy. He’s far too introverted, for one thing.

Fascinated, Michael leans forward. “How did that go?”

Alex takes a sip of juice. “About as well as you’d expect any kind of night where Blackburn’s your wingman.”

Knowing Alex, Blackburn would probably be far more relaxed in that kind of environment than he would be. “No bites?”

“Oh there were bites,” Alex laughs. “Then Todd read one poster in the bar about the dangers of chemsex and decided he needed to interrogate every guy that showed even a slight interest in getting in my pants.” He rolls his eyes, clearly more amused by the story than angry, though Michael imagines that’s a case of hindsight at play. “First time I’ve ever been cockblocked by someone who was actually _trying_ to get me laid.”

“Knew I liked him,” Michael nods. He feels bad for Alex, he does, but he also feels bad about the idea of Alex wandering into a gay bar on the other side of the world, desperate enough for some company that he isn’t as cautious as he should be. And yes, Michael is aware he’s a massive hypocrite, but _he’s_ the kind of man you have rough, messy, no strings bathroom-stall sex with; Alex deserves better.

“You both get points for being neurotically overprotective,” Alex says with a dramatic roll of the eyes.

Michael bristles indignantly. “I am not overprotective!” He’s just the right amount of protective, thank you very fucking much.

Alex’s smile is knowing. “Uh huh. Graduation. You glared at David Hayes so hard I thought his head was going to explode.”

Oooh. Oh, so they’re doing that, are they? “He was flirting with you!”

“That was the point, Guerin!”

Michael huffs and crosses his arms over his chest, pouting when Alex continues to laugh at him. It might be funny now, but at the time, Michael’d worked very hard not to drop the school piano on David Hayes stupid face. “He cheated on every girlfriend he had. You deserved better.”

“So do you,” says Alex, the sadness in his eyes making it clear he’s talking about so much more.

Michael swallows painfully. “I think I’m doing okay.” He hands Alex a second cup of pudding with a pointed look. “So the club thing was a complete bust, huh?”

“First time,” Alex says, letting him change the subject. “Second night I handcuffed Blackburn to the bar, gave the keys to a group of women on their bachelorette party and went back to the hotel with the DJ.” He looks incredibly proud of himself.

“Why,” Michael asks, unable to get over one detail, “did you have handcuffs?”

He’s never seen the expression that’s on Alex’s face before. It’s slow and smug and utterly sinful. “That’s not a first date kinda question, Guerin,” he says, smirking.

It takes Michael’s brain a few seconds to reboot. “Well fuck me,” he breathes. Alex's not supposed to be the bad influence in this relationship!

“I don’t think the docs have cleared me for that level of activity yet,” he says innocently. He manages a spoonful of pudding, then passes the container back to Michael.

He’s flagging, and a quick glance at his watch tells Michael they’ve been out here far longer than the thirty minutes promised. “We should probably get you back to bed,” he says, standing so he can fuss with the edges of the blanket over Alex’s thighs.

He waits for Alex to protest and instead only spots the subtle way his shoulders sag. Too much. They’ve pushed too far.

“I’m sorry,” Michael says. “I shoulda taken you back ages ago.” He packs up their trash to dispose of, then unfastens the breaks on Alex’s chair.

He’s moved to stand behind it when Alex reaches up and grasps his wrist. The movement comes with a soft grunt of pain as broken ribs protest, but Alex doesn’t let go. “No,” he says. “This was perfect. Thank you.”

“Good enough to get me that second date?” Michael asks hopefully.

“Depends,” Alex says.

“On?”

A blush rises to his cheeks. “If you kiss me.”

Michael looks around, hardly able to believe Alex has asked. There’s no one around, but they’re still in public. In public, and on military property.

It's their smiles that touch first as Michael leans down. The angle is awkward, and he leans over Alex to brace a hand against the back of the bench instead of putting any of his weight on the chair or Alex himself. There’s every possibility he’s going to fall on his ass in the process, but then Alex’s hands slide into his hair and angle him just so, and Michael is home again.

Alex’s lips part at the touch of Michael’s, and what starts as a gentle brush of their mouths quickly escalates into the kiss Michael has been dreaming of since he was seventeen. Alex sighs against him, his body soft and yielding even as his fingers clench in Michael’s hair hard enough to hurt. The only hand he has spare is his scarred left hand, but it still fits perfectly in the curve of Alex’s jaw, and now he’s shaved, his skin is as soft and smooth as Michael remembers.

He never wants this to end - he wants to stay here forever, with Alex’s hands on him and his mouth a sweet, supple distraction from all the ways their lives have diverged over the years.

Despite the way his body is twisted and the ache that flares in his back and shoulders, it’s not until Alex moans against him, breathless and pained, that Michael draws away.

It's overwhelming how quickly they’ve fallen back together, their broken pieces fitting so well its as though designed that way. Michael stumbles back, a hand trying and failing to make his hair look any less disheveled. Even if he manages - and he doubts he will - Alex has that dazed, _just kissed stupid_ look on his face and it’s probably reflected on Michael’s own.

“Best first date ever,” he says.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter was fluffy! This one is... less so.

  
There’s something strange about Max and Isobel Evans. Or Evans-Bracken, as Isobel announces, showing off her wedding ring with none of the smugness Alex has imagined, and all the excitement of a little girl who has found her Prince Charming.

Granted, there’s always been a mystery there. Max, Isobel, and Michael. Three seven-year-old children found wandering naked and mute in the desert. There aren’t a whole lot of reasons for children to be in that kind of situation, and none of them are good. Alex can hardly bear to think about Michael that young and vulnerable, about what might’ve been done to him all those years ago.

Whatever happened, the bond it’s forged between the three survivors is unmistakable, but somehow Alex gets the impression that they’re standing on shifting sands. Max and Isobel are tentative in ways that feel at odds with the actions of two people who have dropped their whole lives to fly around the world in support of their brother, and Michael expression shifts far too frequently into surprised longing when they talk.

“I’m not the one that read Descartes for fun!” Michael says with an air of pained bewilderment.

Max, who to that point has been defending his reading habits from the merciless ribbing of both Michael and Isobel, holds up his hands and tries to protest. He really is still the same geek he was in high school, he’s just added twelve inches and got himself a gun.

Taking pity on him, Alex grins tiredly at Michael. “No, you’re the guy who read fifteen hundred pages on the construction of the Mars Rover.” While resting with his head on Alex’s thigh, if Alex remembers correctly. “If anyone’s winning the Nerd of the Year Award here…”

Michael explodes into indignant outrage. “Oppy’s my girl! Don’t you disrespect her!”

“It’s a robot, Michael, not a puppy,” Isobel scoffs, deliberately poking the bear as only a sister can. Alex can’t think of a time he’s ever seen Michael look so offended.

“How dare you! This is a betrayal, a-“

The three of them launch into an animated argument over space robots - or Michael starts to rant, while Max and Isobel stir the pot of outrage just for the fun of it. It’s nice, seeing Michael so animated and excitable. Alex leans back into the support of the pillows and lets their voices wash over him.

He’s still sleeping for massive chunks of the day, but he wants to stay awake now. He wants to listen to them bicker and soak in the surreal normality of laughing and joking with a group of people who know what Alex and Michael mean to each other, and who aren’t disgusted by it.

He closes his eyes just for a second - blinks really, he’s not asleep- and opens them to find Michael standing over him, the warmth of a kiss still lingering on his forehead. “Sorry,” Alex says, closing his eyes again and sighing.

“You’re fine,” Michael says. “You want me to call the doc? How’s your pain?”

Alex can’t help his tired smile. “I’m fine,” he says. Michael responds with a grunt of disbelief, and drags his usual chair closer to the side of the bed, ready to settle in. Alex reaches over and touches his arm. “Go back to the hotel,” he says. “You need to sleep in an actual bed.”

“I’m f-“

“I’m not going anywhere,” Alex promises him. “I’ll still be here in the morning.”

The conflict is clear in Michael’s expressive eyes. It’s there in the way he worries his lip with his teeth, forehead creased and shoulders hunched.

Michael has abandonment issues. Even with the bare minimum of his history to draw upon, Alex knows trauma, and he knows Michael’s battling demons he can’t possibly understand. Alex has his own part to play in that, his own sins to atone for: he abandoned Michael when he was at his most vulnerable and their reconciliation has come as a result of a brush with death. Michael’s gaze is never far from Alex and he reaches for the reassurance of contact freely and often.

He has to be bullied to leave Alex long enough to shower and change, and on the few occasions he’s passed out at the hotel, exhausted and able to let his guard down, he’s always burst back into the room as if he’s expected Alex to have vanished into thin air.

“Alex is right,” Max says, a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “I’ll drive you back first thing in the morning.”

“Please?” Alex doesn’t give Michael the chance to protest and tries not to feel guilty when he turns up the pleading in his expression. “I’ll get the nurses to call Blackburn to sit with me if that’s what you’re worried about?”

The promise that Alex won’t be alone - along with what has to be a brutal ache in his neck from spending so long hunched in the chair - wins out. Michael leans in and kisses him again, a gentle ghost of their lips brushing together that’s entirely innocent and incredibly tender. Alex still turns pink. “I’ll be back in first thing,” he says, “and I’ll smuggle you some decent breakfast.”

“Come on,” Isobel says, shooing Max and Michael to the door. “I’ll be out in a second: Alex and I need a little alone time.”

Feeling like a deer in headlights, Alex suddenly remembers the Isobel Evans from High School - the girl who could reduce even Kyle’s posse to tears with one withering look - and fears for his life. “We do?” Christ, his voice isn’t usually that high pitched, is it?

“Isobel,” Michael says warningly. “You’re not giving the shovel talk to a man in a hospital bed!”

She crosses her fingers over her heart. “No shovel talk,” she promises. “Now shoo. You can come back and make moon eyes at your boyfriend in the morning.”

A chuckling Max draws Michael away, but not before Alex foolishly says, “It’s fine, Guerin.”

Michael sighs dramatically but finally gives in.

The second they are alone together, Isobel spins on her heels and levels Alex with a piercing expression. “If you hurt my brother, I will end you.”

Fortunately for Alex, he’s faced a lot worse than the likes of a protective sister. “This sounds an awful lot like a shovel talk,” he says mildly.

Undeterred, she continues. “Michael likes to pretend he doesn’t care about anything, or that nothing can ever hurt him, but it’s a lie. I’ve never seen him broken the way he was when he thought he was gonna lose you.”

Isobel is nothing like the kind of people who have hurled threats at him in the past, and none of the usual ‘fuck you’s’ he typically responds with emerge. She’s the easiest to read of all her siblings, and the only emotion he can see in her is fear.

“I’m not going to hurt him,” he says with a gentle, reassuring smile. “I’m not.”

There’s a weight to her gaze that’s inescapable, and for a second, he loses himself in her eyes. They’re greener than Michael’s, lacking the same golden kiss of warmth, but there’s something…

“Good,” she nods, startling Alex out of his daze. “Good. You make him happy.”

It’s hard for Alex to speak around the sudden lump in his throat. “That’s all I want,” he admits, and her expression softens.

Straightening her shoulders and flipping her ponytail, she smiles, awkward but earnest. “Then welcome to the family. You’re now officially responsible for selecting the wine you both bring over for Thanksgiving.”

“Er-“

“Michael’s killed off basically ninety percent of his tastebuds so, letting him chose is a disaster,” she explains. The image of Michael Guerin, cowboy hat and dirty jeans, buying wine of any kind fills Alex with a ridiculous longing. He wants to see that.

“I can do that,” Alex agrees, slightly afraid she’s going to set her mom’s bridge club on him if he fucks it up.

Circling the bed, she surprises him by dropping a quick peck to his cheek. “And I promise to make sure he sleeps for at least eight hours.”

Alex grins. It might take all three of them to navigate Michael’s stubbornness, but he gets the feeling they’ll make a good team.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t get anyone to call Blackburn. Once Doctor Fraser is done with his evening torture session, the nurses turn the lights down in his room, and Alex settles into solitude. He’s not been left in his own company since waking up, and while it’s humbling to know he’s cared for, it’s exhausting trying to be what he needs to be for them at all times.

One night. He needs one night to get his head around things. To start to process everything that’s happened.

Tentatively, he reaches down and throws the sheets to one side of the bed.

Still there. Or not there, in this case.

He reaches down a trembling hand, slowly edging across flesh he’s never really paid much attention to in the past. He’s always taken his legs - his mobility - for granted and like so many things, never spared a second thought to what works right until they suddenly don’t. Beyond awareness of aches and pains when muscles are overworked, bones are never factored much into anything until they break. Granted, Alex’s had plenty of broken bones over the years, but they’ve always healed. After a few months of dwelling on the hurt and inconvenience, things have always improved.

He’s not suddenly going to grow a new leg. It will never get better. This is him, now, for the rest of his life.

Much of the swelling has gone down, but the stitches, while neat, are nothing like the small, unobtrusive ones that have just been removed from his forehead. They’re heavy-duty and grotesque, half of Frankenstein’s Monster, still incomplete.

There’s something sickly, perversely poetic about it. Michael’s hand and his leg. Two injuries inflicted while caught up in someone else’s war. For all Alex knows, this is simply karma. That’s a Maria question. She’s always been able to peek behind the curtains of the universe.

It’s only been a day since Michael took him on their ‘date’ and already it’s hard to remember a world outside this room. He’s back hooked up to what feels like every machine under the sun, a catheter in place so he doesn’t even have the excuse of getting up to go to the bathroom. Not that he can, not without help.

Having to rely on someone else just to go to the bathroom is humiliating. The idea that it might be Michael comes with emotions too complicated to unpick. He’s already seen Alex at his lowest, bruised and bloody and desperately trying to convince himself he’s not living in a near perpetual state of terror. It’s not like he can think any less of him, not when he has to live with his own scars because of what Alex did.

But these last few days have awoken a dream in him that’s been long dormant. Michael, for whatever reason, has suspended his entire life to be with Alex, and the way he talks, the look in his eyes… he might as well be a figment of Alex’s hopeless imagination. This Michael looks at him with hope and adoration. This Michael is someone Alex can imagine going to bed with and waking up with and bickering about whose turn it is to take out the trash. The white picket fence dream of his childhood has never been closer, and it’s terrifying.

Needing Michael to hold him because his father’s beaten seven shades of shit out of him is one thing. It’s temporary. Finite.

Needing Michael to help him to the bathroom every fucking day because his leg got blown off and not everyone takes to prosthetics…

That’s a nightmare.

His fingers finally touch empty space where flesh and muscle and bone once existed and a harsh sob echos around the room.

There’s no one here to witness his tears, and that’s how he prefers it. Crying in front of his father gets him nothing but ‘something to really cry about’; crying in front of Michael makes _Michael_ look like he’s about to cry, and Alex’ll jump on another grenade before he’s the cause of Michael’s tears again.

But here, in the dark, there’s no one to see.

There are few things more miserable than crying with broken ribs. It’s a familiar pain, one he knows can rapidly become a real problem as the physical release of emotions triggers an agonizing wave of hurt, and the two start to feed into each other in a cruel cycle. That’s when he usually ends up sprawled on the floor, unable to breathe and about to black out.

He’s absolutely not risking that here. He’s hooked up to every alarm and whistle: the mortification of being found sobbing like a child is enough to strengthen his control. Shuddering, he bites back on one sob, and then the next, trying to find a pattern of breathing that works when panic demands deep breaths and injuries necessitate shallow ones.

He manages, the process slow and cautious but consistent. Eventually, he calms, and eventually, he can pull the sheets back over himself, the extra warmth helping to ground him.

Leaning back into the pillows, he closes his eyes and mentally counts to a hundred. Then he does it again.

Exhaustion is heavy in his bones, but sleep is a long time coming.

 

* * *

__  
It must happen, though. One minute he’s glaring at the ceiling, the next he’s blinking slowly, startled awake but unsure why.

A shape moves beside the bed, familiar somehow, despite the haze of sleep still clinging to him.

“Michael?” Exhaustion stripes pretense from his words. By this point, ‘Guerin’ is as much a nickname as it is a barrier, the same way Todd is ‘Blackburn’ and Alex is ‘Manes’. He’s Michael in Alex’s heart, and that’s what calls out into the dark.

A sense of wrongness falls into fill the silence left after. Michael’s not here, his brain tells him. He’s back at the hotel, hopefully sleeping.

His unit, then? Only the figure isn’t tall enough to be Carlos, and far too quiet to be Blackburn, and his eyes are cold in a way that the Colonel’s never are.

Awareness hits him the same second a palm slams into his chest. The responding agony is debilitating, his cry cut off by a firm hand over his mouth. There’s no room in Alex’s head for thoughts of escape: all he can do is battle the pain and try to push back the creeping edges of darkness that are threatening to drag him under.

“Alex,” Jesse Manes leans over him, terrifying in his quiet calmness, “we need to talk.”


	12. Chapter 12

There are entirely too many choices when it comes to breakfast pastries. Knowing whether Alex is more of an apple turnover or a pain-au-chocolat kind of guy is one of those ‘little things’ they’ve still yet to cover, so Michael spends a good twenty minutes staring at the selection and battling a wave of panic. He’s pretty sure Alex isn’t going to leave him just because he picks the wrong thing, but this bubble of ‘them’ is so new and so fragile that Michael can’t help but wonder how he’s going to manage to fuck it up. Pastry seems as likely a way as any.

He gets a selection in the end, figuring Alex can use the extra calories if he’s hungry, and that Carlos probably needs to eat a horse every day just to maintain those biceps. Nothing’s about to go to waste.

Max drops him at the hospital entrance before going back to collect Isobel. The two of them are going to Frankfurt for the day - Max to cry over some art history museum, and Isobel to buy something for Noah - and Michael is just glad they’re getting something more out of the trip than a tour of a US medical facility.

By this point, Michael knows the route to Alex’s room by heart and can let his mind drift as he walks. He’s slept more in the one night than he has since arriving here, and there’s a bounce in his step that’d be embarrassing if only he gave a fuck. Christ, he’s so fucking gone it’s unreal.

He’s going to go into Alex’s room, walk right up to him, and kiss him good morning. Because he can. The feelings he’s had to bottle up for so long are fizzing wildly in his chest, desperate for an outlet, and, for the first time, Michael is allowed to release some of that pressure. He’s allowed to hold Alex’s hand and kiss him and stay by his side.

Fuck absolutely everything, but he shouldn’t be this happy. Not when Alex is in so much pain.

He can’t help it.

In the hallway outside Alex's room, the three remaining members of his unit are standing grim-faced. They look like they're awaiting a firing squad.  

The bag of pastries hits the floor as Michael skids through the doorway, already knowing what he’s going to find, but hoping…

Alex isn’t there.

“They transferred him this morning,” the Colonel says grimly. He enters the room, arms crossed over his chest. Blackburn and Carlos follow, and they stand around an empty bed, adrift without the star they have all spent so long orbiting.

The wires spark in Michael’s brain, following the routes he’s already mapped out after years of paranoia and fear. “Texas?” he asks, thinking of the Air Force’s Centre for the Intrepid that provides rehabilitation for wounded Airmen.

The Colonel shakes his head, meeting Michael's gaze with so much intensity it's obvious he wants to be doing entirely the opposite. “No.”

“D.C.?” A bitch of a trip, but he can do it. Fly back to Roswell and drive northeast. Alex has months of rehab ahead of him so he’ll be there too long for Michael to live out of a motel.

“We don’t know _where_ they’re sending him,” Blackburn suddenly snaps. He’s too young for the depth of the lines around his eyes, and all the friendliness has been stripped from his face.

Michael can only stare are them. “How can you not know that? You’re his Unit Commander,” he says to the Colonel. “How can you not fucking know where he is?”

“Because as of o-six-hundred hours this morning, we’re disbanded,” the Colonel says, his voice tightly modulated and rigidly even, “I’ve been recalled to Washington to answer for my decisions in the field; the rest of the unit are being reassigned.”

“They’re splitting us up,” Blackburn says, his eyes bright with panic. “They _can’t_ split us up.”

“They can,” the Colonel says, laying a reassuring hand on Blackburn’s shoulder and squeezing, “and they have. Alex is USAF, and no longer officially my responsibility. I’ve called in some favors, but no one is telling me shit.”

“You said - you said we were okay!” Blackburn shouts. “You said they weren’t going to split us up!”

Michael’s been semi privy to a number of conversations the Colonel has had over the past few weeks. Their latest orders were - until this morning at least - to be back in Washington by the end of the month - a concession made to accommodate their injuries. Alex, for obvious reasons, is exempt, but it makes no sense for there to be a complete one-eighty shift, unless -

“Jesse Manes was here last night,” Carlos says. He’s a painfully quiet man, one who makes Alex look chatty in comparison - and his low voice seems to always demand immediate silence from those around him. “He left with the transport this morning.”

Michael takes a sharp breath in, and doesn’t let it out. Trapped in the space between panicked heartbeats, he’s back in Alex’s tool shed, crippled and nearly catatonic with pain, Jesse Manes standing over him, blood like warpaint splattered across his face. Then Alex is there, his body bowed over Michael’s, a supplicant’s pose, arm extended. He begs for Michael’s life without question that Manes will take it, given the chance. Michael does nothing, says nothing. He doesn’t protest when Manes drags Alex from the shed, and he doesn’t look back when he finally stumbles to his truck.

The conversation continues on without him.

“He did this!” Blackburn growls. “He did this to get to Alex!”

“Manes doesn’t have that kind of authority, kid,” the Colonel says patiently. “And even if he did, why the hell would he go to all that effort when Alex was due to be transferred next week anyway?”

Michael has the same question. Manes seems to have left Alex alone this long, so what the hell has changed? It can’t be because Michael is here. With or without his presence, Alex is still gay. No one, no matter how homophobic and controlling, would go to these lengths just to isolate Alex from his friends and... and what. That's the fucking question.

There’s something more here. Something worse. And Alex… fuck, Alex is injured. He’s got a traumatic head injury and he can’t fucking walk.

Michael misses what Blackburn says next. Every cell in his body is demanding to unleash a power he already has to struggle to control.

“You're making a massive jump from abusive father to government conspiracy,” the Colonel says with the kind of patient tone that suggests Blackburn often makes giant leaps of logic. It's fond but is met only with outrage.

“Manes didn't _abuse_ Alex, he fucking terrorized him!” Blackburn’s face is read from shouting, and he’s leaning more heavily on his injured leg than he has the entire time he’s been here.

Before the Colonel can rebuke him, Michael, careful to enunciate every fucking word, says, “You have no idea what that man is capable of.” And then, because he’s barely holding back the urge to scream, he adds, “He was supposed to be safe here! You fucking promised me he was safe here!”

He expects something from the Colonel, a denial maybe, or an excuse, but it’s Blackburn who rounds on him, the fierce protectiveness Alex has only hinted at outlined in every furious line of his face. “Well where the fuck were you?”

Michael hasn’t backed down from a fight in years. He’s not let someone get a hit in, verbally or physically, without swinging back since the day his life went to hell in a handbasket.

But there’s no response he can give to that accusation that doesn’t make a mockery of all the things he’s promised himself.

Alex is an adult. Even if he says he’s going to call someone and doesn’t, he’s got a fucking head injury. If the need for some time alone is what motivates his silence, then it’s up to Michael to sit outside his fucking door all night and stand watch. Blackburn might know about Jesse Manes, but he’s the only one who _understands_ what that means.

“Look,” the Colonel puts himself between Michael and Blackburn, no doubt anticipating an explosion of temper to match. “He hasn’t just vanished off the face of the planet. No matter what strings Manes might’ve pulled, there will be a paper trail. It’s gone through official channels: he _will_ be at one of the medical centers. We just need to follow the leads.”

“And how are we gonna do that when we’re scattered across the continental US?” Blackburn sneers.

There’s a level of vindictiveness at play here that shouldn’t surprise Michael, but it’s clearly taken the rest of them off guard. Jesse Manes isn’t someone you defy, and he’s not someone you cross. They refused him access to Alex, so he’s not stopped at just taking what he wants.

That’s Manes’s playbook: disruption + destruction = devastation.

“You’re not,” Michael says. “I am.”

He’s surprised when none of them laugh at him. “What are you going to do?” It’s Carlos who asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken to Michael directly.

Michael’s jaw aches from tension and his body all but vibrates with the need to destroy. “What I should’ve done when I was seventeen,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m gonna find Alex, and then I’m gonna kill his father.”

For all that he’s covered up more than his fair share of murder, he’s never actually taken a life. There’s a first time for everything. He knows he can do it without ever being caught. Admitting his plans aloud should be stupid, but this is one secret he feels confident in sharing with these men.

Still, he’s not interested in waiting around. Alex has been missing for nearly three hours now. Michael’s got fucking work to do.

He leaves them in an empty room and makes his way to the parking lot. He’s not got the time or the patience to wait for Max to pick him up, but he’s been hot-wiring cars since he was twelve.

“Guerin,” Blackburn calls after him. Michael’s in no mood to either make nice or rehash the same arguments. He stops, but makes no move to turn around. “Hey, er-“ he sounds contrite, softer now he’s released some of his anger. Michael wishes he could say the same. His anger isn’t one that’ll be eased by shouting or screaming. His anger is about to level a fucking building.

It takes almost a minute for Blackburn to catch up to him, the clatter of crutches ringing on the floor as he limps. When they’re finally eye to eye, there’s nothing but regret in his expression. “What?” Michael snaps.

“Find him,” Blackburn pleads.

Michael nods, short and sharp.

Blackburn holds out his hand and presses a chain into Michael’s palm. “They were down the side of the bed,” he says. “He’d want you to have them.”

There’s absolutely nothing special about Alex’s dog tags. The information printed into stainless steel is nothing he doesn’t already know by now.

What _is_ special, and what’s sure as hell not regulation, is the small plastic disk that hangs between the two metal plates. It’s thin, flexible, and Michael has a hundred memories of it between his fingertips, of running it over guitar strings and losing himself in the music he made.

Michael has no idea how Alex got his old guitar pick, but there, nestled in the palm of his hand, is proof that Alex has worn him over his heart for nearly a decade.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It goes without saying that Jesse Manes is terrible, but this chapter needs an extra warning for some serious gaslighting.

“Three more, Captain, then we can call it a night.”

Sweat’s pouring down Alex’s brow, stinging when he blinks it into his eyes. Three more, she says, as though Alex even has one left in him.

His PT is insane. He’s signed on the dotted line, agreed to the intensive rehabilitation program, and he’s willing to bear the pain that comes with it. Any effort is worth it not to feel so helpless.

But fuck if there aren’t times like this one where he questions just how much damage the head injury has done to his sanity.

Shuddering through a violent inhale of air, Alex grits his teeth and sinks lower into the movement. The irrational fear that his prosthetic can’t hold his weight still hovers at the back of his mind, but as usual, it’s not the new limb that lets him down, but his own body. His thigh muscles contract differently now as his body recalibrates a new way to balance and move. They’ve already spent an hour doing core exercises today, and this final set of squats is probably going to kill him.

Shifting the weighted bar on his shoulders just enough to ease the pressure on his neck, Alex sinks into a quiet part of his mind and forces the last few reps. Steady hands ease the weights from his grip, and he slumps down into an undignified tangle of limbs on the mats. “Fuck,” he gasps, trying to find a place in his body that doesn’t hate him right now.

Helen, his angel-faced sadist of a physiotherapist, leans over him and beams. “Nicely done!”

“I hate you,” Alex groans. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“You’re fine,” she laughs at him, holding out a hand so she can help him upright. “You did good today.”

“Good enough to sign off on my papers?” Alex asks hopefully. He plucks at the bottom of his t-shirt, grimacing as he peels sweat soaked fabric from his skin.

“Nice try,” Helen says, throwing him a bottle of water and nodding in satisfaction when he practically drains the whole bottle in one. “I’m not clearing you for field ops, not a chance.”

“But-“ he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and clicks the lid on the bottle closed.

“You’re doing great with the prosthetic,” she reassures him, “really. But it’s been less than six months. Another week and maybe we'll talk about you resuming some limited duties. I know it’s rough, but you need to be patient with yourself. ”

“Patience has never been my son’s strong suit,” Jesse Manes always cuts an intimidating figure, and it’s even more pronounced when Alex is in shorts and a t-shirt. Feeling self-conscious, Alex looks away and leans against the weights rack.

“You’re still progressing faster than anyone expects you to,” Helen says encouragingly. “You should be proud of him, Master Sargent,” she passes Alex a small towel and smiles at his dad.

Alex takes it, grateful for something to hide his expression behind when his dad says, “I always am. I thought I’d walk you back to your room.” He phrases the question like Alex has a choice in the matter.

“I need a shower,” Alex says, looking at Helen. “It’ll take a while.”

“I’m in no rush,” he answers hands held loosely behind his back.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Captain," Helen waves as she collects her things and jogs over to the offices.

There’s no recourse open to Alex here, and by now this has become almost routine for them. After PT, he’s walked to his room. After therapy, his dad takes him out for food. He’s playing the role of proud, doting father so well, and the act doesn’t drop once they are in private.

“ _I thought I lost you_ ,” he says, when Alex calls him on his sudden attentiveness. “ _I was so scared, Alex. So scared. You’re my son._ ”

Alex will never forgive him for what he did to Michael, but the rest of it? Maybe… maybe nearly losing Alex _has_ reminded his dad of how things used to be? Maybe there’s a part of him that actually loves him still?”

It takes Alex thirty minutes to shower and change. The prosthetic has to be kept dry, so it’s a balancing act. The showers in the PT center are all equipped with handrails and benches, so it’s easier than the small cubical in his room.

His dad is still waiting when he leaves the changing rooms. He doesn’t look bored or annoyed at having to hang around. He actually looks pleased to see Alex.

“You’re getting faster on those crutches,” he says, keeping pace with Alex as they head out into the quad.

“Helen says I can lose one the end of next week if my balance keeps improving.” It feels like he’s progressing at a snail’s pace, but being able to leave one crutch behind will be a massive leap forward.

“I meant it you know,” his dad says, holding the door for Alex once they enter the residential building where they both have rooms. “I am proud of you.”

Alex busies himself with calling the elevator, unable to hide just how desperately he’s wanted to hear those words.

He’s aware he’s being studied, that his father’s all-seeing eyes are taking everything in, and as always, he fears he falls far short of expectation. He doesn’t know how to respond to that kind of praise, so he says nothing.

Once inside his room, he drops his eyes onto the table by the door and props his crutch next to it. The room is small - a bed, a desk, a tiny kitchenette, and a small bathroom. He can limp around with something to lean on and rest his aching hands.

The warm palm that cups the back of his neck doesn't land without a sigh, and for a second, Alex feels guilty for flinching. “Son-“

It’s strange, being the same height as his father. Stranger still that he knows two dozen ways to kill him that don’t require the use of his leg at all. The Air Force might’ve been a result of blackmail and desperation, but it’s taught him how to protect himself. If his dad tries to pull any of the shit he’s done in the past…

But he hasn’t. Since arriving in the US, his dad has done nothing but encourage and support him. He bestows the kind of fatherly gestures Alex once craved and now has no idea how to handle, and he’s not once thrown the kind of slurs at him that used to be a daily occurrence.

This is new, wholly, and unprecedented. Even Alex’s brothers haven’t been treated to this side of Jesse Manes; someone who smiles and laughs and tells him he’s proud.

It feels, for the first time, like they might be on the same wavelength. That they might be able to have an actual conversation.

“Alex,” his dad sighs, his hand still curled around Alex’s neck, “I know things got pretty bad between us in the past. I’m trying.”

“ _Is_ it the past?” Alex asks. “Nothing’s changed. I’m still gay. I’m still everything you hate.” He feels that old, familiar spike of terror at saying it out loud and waits for the sting of an open palm that always follows it.

Instead, his dad presses Alex gently to sit down on the foot of the bed, then kneels before him. It’s the first time Alex can ever remember ever having a physical advantage over him. “I don’t hate you, son,” he says, looking pained. They’re words Alex has been longing to hear for years, and he’s desperate to believe them. “I got it wrong. Your… feelings, your preferences… I should’ve gotten you help. I should’ve supported you.”

“I’m not sick, dad,” Alex whispers.

“I didn’t protect you,” his dad says, ignoring him. “I thought what I was doing was for the best. I thought if you just _listened_ , but… don’t you understand, Alex? It wasn’t your fault. Michael Guerin preyed on your vulnerabilities. He _targeted_ you. He _seduced_ you. He _used_ you to get to our family.”

And now they’re at the crux of the issue. No matter how much Alex has longed to hear those words from his father, this? This is bullshit.

“Because we hunt aliens,” Alex says flatly. It makes a perverse sort of logic that the lost part of his heart finds some comfort in. If his dad has completely lost his fucking mind, then maybe it really _isn’t_ Alex that brings out the worst in him. “Because _Michael_ is an alien.” He’s heard of parents hating their children’s boyfriends before, but surely he’s the first to be accused of sleeping with ET?

His dad reaches up and cups his cheek. “I knew they were dangerous. I knew they were cruel and heartless, but I never thought they could be _so_ sick and twisted as to target a teenage boy.”

They’ve covered this ground more than once over the past few months, but this is by far the most contrite his father has ever been. Alex’s initial outrage has been worn away to exhausted bewilderment. “You talk about him like he’s not my age. He’s not some predator, dad, he was just a kid like me.”

“They look it,” his dad says desperately. “They look just like us, they chose the forms most likely to pass unnoticed, but make no mistake, Alex. They aren’t human. Michael isn’t human. They know nothing of love and kindness. They can mimic it, but it’s not real. Whatever he says he feels for you _is not real_.”

The thought strikes too close to home, and for a second, he starts to doubt. He misses Michael so much. He _loves_ him so much. Feelings like these can’t be normal. Love isn’t supposed to hurt like this, surely?

He catches himself almost immediately. Michael hasn’t enchanted him with some alien superpower because aliens aren’t fucking real.

“If he is what you say he is, why didn’t he stop you that day?” Alex doesn’t need to clarify, but he also doesn’t know what to make of the flinch that tenses his dad’s shoulders. “If he has ‘alien powers’-“

“He didn’t want to reveal himself!” his dad cries. “We still don’t know what their endgame is. He tried to get you once when you were a boy, and again when you were in the hospital. Can’t you see it? They wait until we’re at our most vulnerable, and they move in for the strike.”

“He loves me!” Alex doesn’t dare say he loves Michael back. He’s not that brave.

His dad closes his eyes as if struck, and when he opens them again, they are kinder than Alex can ever remember them being. “I know it’s hard. And I know you don’t believe me yet. But you will. Your transfer has been approved. Once you’re done here, you’re coming back to Roswell with me. I’ll prove to you that everything I’ve said is the truth, and we can finish this together. It’s your legacy, son. Yours and mine.”

Alex is shaking his head, but his dad stands. Conversation over, then. At least some things never change.

“Get some rest,” his dad says, patting his shoulder. Moving to the small bassinet, he shakes out the pain medication and muscle relaxants that Alex has to take like clockwork if he doesn’t want to seize up entirely. He holds them out with a glass of water and doesn’t say anything more until they’re swallowed. Then, without asking, he kneels again to remove Alex’s prosthetic. “That’s my boy,” he praises, setting the leg by the bathroom door. “I’ll see you in the morning, son.”

He leaves, the door closing and locking behind him.

Exhausted, Alex falls back into the bed, asleep before his head hits the pillow.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think by this point Michael's (and Isobel's) frequent use of acetone stops being a thinly veiled metaphor for self-medication and straight up becomes 'we might have a substance abuse problem here'. I'm classing this under 'unhealthy coping mechanisms' but if you think it warrants a specific tag please do let me know.

 

Somedays Michael wonders if there’s ever been a point in his life where his days didn't revolve around someone else. The first few tremulous years on Earth, perhaps? But even when his only thoughts are to survive each day at a time, the specters of Max and Isobel haunt him, and from the day he steps foot back in Roswell… they’ve always come first. Heart and head. There’s nothing he won’t do for them, no lines he won’t cross, and there’s a comfort in that level of dependency that is probably far unhealthier than Michael likes to pretend it is. He’s always been the satellite orbiting them. Always on the outside looking in, ready to jump between them and harm. Always willing to take the hit so they won’t have to.

Michael’s never been able to say he loves too much, or too hard, or too painfully, because it’s only ever been Max and Isobel that he loves. They, always, transcend everything. He has no point of comparison. 

And then Alex.

In many ways, Alex has destroyed him.

Before him, the overwhelming, all-encompassing love for his siblings makes sense purely in that they are all each other has. They’re strangers alone in a world of humans who can never be trusted to be anything other than cruel and self-serving.

_And then Alex._

Alex has taught him that humans are capable of just as much love and devotion as their kind.

In one thoughtlessly kind moment, Alex lights a fire under the foundations of Michael’s existence that can never be quenched. The damage is done: the structural integrity of his defenses are compromised.

This is before he knows the taste of Alex’s mouth against his, before the cries of his passion become the soundtrack to his dreams.

Alex breaks him apart with kindness and pieces him back together with love. No matter where they are, no matter how many miles and years separate them, Michael’s heart knows it will only ever find peace in the safekeeping of Alex’s soul. If Alex turns him away, if he rejects him and casts him aside, that will never change.

Michael will do whatever it takes to keep him safe.

Pinned to the wall of the bunker, a map of the US stares back at him in silent condemnation of his efforts.

Every military medical facility is marked up in red. Every active base of operations, every facility, every training ground are indicated with a corresponding color. There’s over a hundred. Multiple sites in each state, each to be carefully researched and observed. He’s marked over two dozen of them off, each a site he’s visited in search of Alex and returned without a sign of him.

It’s a slow, tediously painful process, not least because each site can house tens of thousands of servicemen and women.

The likely suspects, the medical and rehabilitation centers, are the first to be eliminated. Now Michael works his way through the remaining list, trips made back and forth to Roswell and as far afield as New England. He can’t leave Max and Isobel indefinitely - Max tiptoes the edge of depression on a good day, and Isobel’s anxiety flares if he leaves her too long. The love he has for them is different, but it’s no more or less than his love for Alex.

He can do both. He can be what his siblings need him to be, and he can save Alex. There isn’t an option where he fails anyone. There can’t be.

Michael will never stop looking. He’ll never give up on Alex. He’s loved him for nearly a decade. They’ve been separated for most of that time.

Six months is nothing. It _changes_ nothing.

It might change everything.

Rubbing the heel of his palm into aching eyes, Michael crosses off the latest of his investigations.

Wherever Alex is, he’s being well hidden. The reasons for that are limited and terrifying.

They’re why Michael - who has promised a worried Isobel to stay in Roswell for at least a week - reaches for the gallon bottle of acetone he picked up that morning.

His pain and heartbreak is a physical ache. It’s a hurt that can’t be numbed by alcohol alone

By this point, he’s fairly sure that he has the Roswell Alien equivalent of an Oxy addiction. He’s relied on acetone since he was a kid and it takes significantly higher doses to have any effect on him these days.

But since it's the only thing that numbs him long enough to get any sleep...

Alex will no doubt disapprove. If Michael ever tells him, at least.

Max and Isobel’ll reach orbit if they ever find out just how much he uses.

What’s another secret to keep from them?

Downing two cups worth, one after the other, he reaches for an anchor and plucks a photograph from the wall.

His fingers trace over the edge of the picture and it’s easy to fall into the memory of how much hope and excitement a young version of himself once contained.

The picture is from that perfect, frozen-in-time-week between their first kiss and their first time. A trip to the middle of nowhere, no witnesses and no fear, just the two of them exchanging lazy kisses under the sun, music and serenity woven through the patchwork of new emotions slowly being unearthed.

It’s not the only picture he has of Alex, but it is the only one that’s _theirs_.

In the second photo, Alex is in uniform and his expression holds none of the soft sweetness his smile is capable of. Still, his eyes remain something Michael thanks the universe for. There’s no reason for such dark eyes to hold so much light if not for the purpose of bringing the stars into Michael’s reach. They aren’t the stars of Roswell, or Iraq, or any of the places the world has separated them to: they’re the stars of home, and Michael will know them even at the end of the world.

He dreams of them when he lays down on the small bunk, bundled up in a hoodie, fingers tracing the ridges and lines of the warm metal disks in his palm.

Alex’s eyes have always brought him peace.

As the levels of acetone left in the bottle start to dwindle, the ache in his heart lessens. It becomes easier to think of Alex without cutting himself on the edges of his memory. He closes his eyes and tries to recall the enthralled, awe-filled ways Alex touches him, and drifts off with the sound of music in his mind.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Jesus, Michael! Max! Max, help me with him!” Isobel’s voice pierces through the cloudy haze of exhausted inebriation, but it’s Max’s large hands that fasten under his armpits and drag him bodily from his bed. Max isn’t the beanpole he was as a kid: he’s fiercely strong, and it doesn’t matter that Michael can’t get his feet under him. He’s half dragged, half carried outside, and it’s warm enough to suggest it’s later in the day than expected. How long has he been out for?

That warmth vanishes a moment later. Isobel dumps an entire bottle of water over his head, standing just far enough away that her shoes don’t get splashed when Michael comes - flailing and cursing and dripping - back to begrudging consciousness.

“Fuck!”

“You look like shit,” she snaps. “How much did you drink?”

“Enough,” Max says, a critical eye roaming over Michael’s shivering, bedraggled form. “He’d kick your ass if he saw you like this.”

Michael isn’t feeling charitable. “I gotta find him before that happens,” he says bitterly. “But he’s not in Florida. Or California. Or Wyoming. Or anywhere on the fucking planet, that I can tell.”

“He’s on the planet,” Max says calmly.

Isobel rolls her eyes. “He’s _in_ Roswell. Or he will be.”

Michael jerks to an abrupt stillness. “What?”

“On behalf of the town, I have been asked to organize a modest parade to welcome back Roswell’s homegrown hero, Captain Alexander Manes,” she says, her tone the same affectionately mocking lilt it always is when talking about her community efforts, but her expression open and hopeful.

“He’s in Roswell?” Michael struggles to keep the tremor from his voice. After all this time, after all Michael’s searching, is it really possible they’re both going to end up back where everything began?

“Jesse Manes is back, too. He spoke with the town committee this morning.”

Max leans forwards and puts a comforting hand on his shoulder before Micahel can surge to his feet. “Michael-“

“Manes is back?” It can’t be a coincidence that both father and son are returning at the same time. What the fuck has that monster been doing to Alex?

“Michael,” Max says again, more forcefully, “before you go running off to see him, just… he’s not made contact at all in six months. What happened to him must’ve been traumatizing, and maybe he needed some space? Maybe he couldn’t process all that on top of everything between you guys?” He’s so cautious, so tenderly gentle. He thinks Michael is going to break if Alex doesn’t want him. He thinks that Alex has had a choice in anything these last few months. “Maybe you should wait for him to come to you?”

He doesn’t understand.

Michael shakes his head, wet curls spraying droplets of water onto the ground. “Alex enlisted to protect me from his father. This? This is exactly the same shit. I’m not leaving him to fight alone. Not again.”

“What Max is saying,” Isobel interjects, “is that maybe you need a plan.”

“I have a plan,” Michael says, and he does. Granted, it’s a new plan. But it’s a _good_ new plan.

She doesn’t look impressed. “Running up to him in the middle of a parade just so you can sweep him off his feet and give his father the fuck-you-finger isn’t a good plan.”

Max starts to frown, as if to silently say ‘our brother isn’t that stupid’ but then his expression falls. “Michael, no.”

Michael grins, the edge of acetone numbness slowly fading from the tips of his fingers. “Michael, _yes_.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust Alex to throw a spanner in the works...
> 
> (This is the first time I have written anything remotely smutty. Lowkey terrified!)

“ _I'm going to shoot someone in the face,_ ” Todd Blackburn announces dramatically over speakerphone. “ _Probably myself. Definitely my new CO_.”

Michael, who is staring at the three sweaters he owns with a helpless kind of panic, makes a consolatory sound. His weekly conversations with Blackburn are typically a combination of them discussing the progress of the hunt for Alex, and then making sure the other doesn't do something stupid in his absence. Michael feels he’s at a disadvantage: he doesn’t have Blackburn’s history of suicidal ideations and he sure as fuck doesn’t have access to the same kind of firepower. “But you’re not gonna do that because…”

 _“The paperwork’d be a bitch_?”

“Dude…”

“ _Yeah. Yeah. It’s cool_ ,” Blackburn says dismissively. “ _So, what’s the plan?_ ”

“There’s no plan,” Michael says, unable to stop his quick glance at the flowers he’s got sitting in a bucket of water in the coolest part of the airstream. He promised flowers… “There’s less than a plan.”

 _“Right. Sure. You guys gonna fuck before or after the parade?_ ”

Michael briefly considers throwing the phone in the bucket with the flowers. “I figured we could talk. About feelings. And shit.”

And where the speckled hen _fuck_ Alex has been.

And why he’s let them all lose their fucking minds with worry for six miserable fucking months.

So by talk, he means fight, and by fight he means there’s a long ass fucking list of things he intends to say to Alex, starting and ending with ‘I love you’ and averaging at least six ‘fuck you’s’ in the process.

“ _Okay, I don’t know if we’re talking about the same Alex here, but the dude is allergic to conversations about himself. I actually think he breaks out into hives_.”

“Don’t care,” Michael says with all the sullenness he’s supposed to have left behind in his teens. “I’m pissed at him.”

And worried out of his head. Mostly worried. Almost entirely worried.

“ _I get that. Totally on board. When you guys are done fucking you should punch him in the dick for me. Or before you fuck. Or, wait. You know what? I’m gonna leave the timeline of dick punching to your discretion_.”

Michael can’t help but laugh. “Thanks, man. But I am in no way getting anywhere close to his dick until I know he’s not going to take off and vanish the second we’re done.”

“ _You know it’s not entirely his fault, right? We’re still in James Bond supervillain territory with Manes Senior here._ ”

“And he’s the very top of my shit list,” Michael agrees, finally picking the dark green sweater from the pitiful choice in front of him. “But unless Alex has spent the last six months chained up in a basement somewhere, he’s got no fucking excuse for not reducing our blood pressure.”

Of course, Alex chained up in a basement is literally a bi-weekly nightmare he has, so…

Jesse Manes is absolutely the type of psychopath who chains people in basements.

He’s also the least likely person to then throw anyone a parade, so the odds of him actually having done so are slim.

“ _Just be gentle with him_ ,” Blackburn says. “ _We’re pissed, but he was in pretty bad shape_.” And therein sits the root of Michael’s terror. “ _And tell him to call me before I hunt his ass down and punch him in his stupid face. I’m only three international flight connections away._ ”

Michael promises to pass the message on, and Blackburn ends the conversation without saying goodbye. It’s a quirk Michael has learned to ignore by this point and is as likely to mean he’s suddenly been called to action as it is he’s just gotten bored and hung up.

Checking his sweater for oil stains, Michael looks up through the window to see the approaching cloud of dust that indicates a visitor. Max and Isobel haven’t been gone more than a few hours, and the vehicle looks military.

Scowling, he throws the sweater over the back of his closet door and stalks to the front steps.

The jeep pulls to a stop just as Michael throws open the door and freezes.

There, in full Dress Blues, a row of ribbons pinned on his chest, Alex emerges from the vehicle and waits at parade rest.

Michael falls down the last two steps and lands with an undignified grunt on one knee. “Alex?”

He should be used to it by now: Alex has always been able to knock him off balance.

“Hi,” says Alex. _Hi_. Like he's just returned from picking up milk. Like Michael hasn't been losing his fucking mind with worry for six fucking months.

Any desire he has to hang back and drink in the sight of him is overwhelmed by the need to hold on tightly and not let go. He gives in, stumbling the few paces between them - absently noting the crutch held on one side - and pulls Alex into his arms.

There's no hesitation on Alex’s side. The moment Michael touches him, he surges forward with equal desperation, colliding in a way that will likely hurt once the adrenaline wears off.

They don't kiss. Not yet. It's not about passion or even desperation. Alex's arms tighten around Michael’s shoulders, Michael's tighten around Alex’s waist, and they just remain there, a crystal of perfection hanging in time.

Michael tries to remember his list, his brain finally struggling back to life after an eternity of holding Alex in his arms.

Right. Start with _I love you_.

He doesn’t get any further. The second the words touch air, Alex’s mouth slams into his own in a clumsy, desperate explosion of desire.

It’s nothing like the kiss at the hospital. That was a reaffirming, reestablishing moment of love and warmth bubbling into something needy and sweet. This is almost a battle. Alex only has the one free hand, but he gets it under the hem of Michael’s shirt with ruthless, goal-orientated precision. Michael, on the other hand, has to navigate a fucking uniform. And not even the loose stone colored ABUs. This shit involves a coat with the stiffest buttons, pants that are equally unhelpful, a shirt, a tie…

“Inside,” he manages to say, his teeth scraping across the skin just above Alex’s collar in the hope that it’ll encourage him to help escape this goddamn fucking nightmare of a uniform.

It’s perfectly possible to appreciate how fucking good Alex looks in Service Uniform while still wanting to burn that shit to the ground.

Alex abandons his crutch by the door and rests more of his weight against Michael. It’s an excuse that warrants the rough removal of Michael’s shirt and the sudden heat of Alex’s mouth on his collarbone.

“Your leg-“ Michael’s valid concerns are paid no attention to when Alex gets his buckle undone and shoves jeans down to tangle at his knees.

“Is fine,” he says, warm, steady hands fastening on to Michael’s hips and spinning him around. Alex, jacket abandoned, shirt half undone and tie hanging around his neck, drops down to sit on the edge of Michael’s narrow bunk.

He has a vague memory of saying that he’s got no intention of going anywhere near Alex’s dick until they’ve talked.

Apparently, that doesn’t include Alex going anywhere near _his_ dick.

At seventeen, Alex had given him the most enthusiastic blowjob of his life. That enthusiasm hasn’t abated one bit, and he’s clearly picked up a few tricks over the years.

The last six months, the last decade -hell, existence itself - flies out the window when Alex wraps his lips around Michael’s dick. All Michael can do is slide his fingers into Alex’s hair and hang the fuck on for the ride.

It’s not over as quickly as it starts - Michael has a fraction more control than that - but it still seems like only moments have passed since Alex appearing on his doorstep.

He comes buried in Alex’s throat, his thighs bruised from the strength in the fingers that clutch him closer, and he barely spares a thought to wrestling Alex out of his uniform before crowding him down onto the bunk. Alex says nothing about the prosthetic, and Michael is too afraid to bring it up, but he does help Alex lean on him when removing his shoes and pants.

Stripped of that pressed and proper uniform, the Alex in his arms is suddenly _his_ again. The cut on his forehead is barely noticeable and his hair has grown out to fall softly across his brow.

In order to let Alex rest in the more comfortable position on his back, Michael rolls over until he’s wedged against the wall. Alex gives a soft whine of annoyance and pulls him back until they’re tangled together, Michael’s head on his shoulder and his arm thrown around his waist. They lay there, catching their breath until heartbeats remembers how to beat together in sync.

Alex shuffles, impatient, until he can get his fingers into Michael’s curls. The firm pressure of those hands massaging his scalp always sends Michael stupid with pleasure. Bonelessly content, he traces the smooth planes of Alex’s stomach, feeling the gentle ridges where hard muscle betrays impressive strength. Alex has always been lean, but he’s never had this kind of definition before. Core strength plays an important part in protecting his back and hips from undue strain while wearing the prosthetic, and Alex has clearly been well taken care of.

Beneath the soft, silken skin, Alex is probably in the best possible physical shape. He certainly _looks_ healthy. The words tumble from Michael’s lips before he can stop them: “Where were you?”

Alex doesn’t quite stiffen under his hand, but he does take a sharper breath. “Michael…” he’s always softer this way, unguarded and open under Michael’s touch. It hurts to see him shore up his defenses in preparation for an attack. “I can’t talk about that.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?” Michael doesn’t mean to sound accusatory, but fear from the last six months curdles into hurt now there is someone to aim those feelings at. And now the sex-stupid haze has abated somewhat.

Alex’s wide, doe-lashed eyes are limpid in the fading light and the golden wash of dusty sunshine over his body feels like something from an old movie. He’s so beautiful it’s impossible for Michael to understand how they can possibly be here together, sharing this space.

“It’s classified,” he says. “Even if I wanted to tell you, I couldn’t.”

The phrasing Alex uses strikes him cold in the gut. “Six months, Alex,” he says, allowing some of the pain to seep into his voice. “You gotta know fucking scared I was.”

The kiss Alex drops to the crown of his head feels like an apology and a distraction all at once. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Just one call. One call to say you were okay.” Now he’s started, he can’t stop. It's not the rant he's had in mind. It feels much heavier than that. 

Alex sighs and starts to move. Michael’s on top of him before either of them realize he’s moved. He plants one knee by Alex’s hip and the other foot firmly on the floor, and when Alex continues to try and sit up, Michael pins him back down by the wrists. There’s no struggle on Alex’s part, no indication that he even cares Michael is manhandling him. Neither of them says anything until it becomes clear that Michael isn’t planning on letting him up any time soon.

At least here, trapped under Michael’s body, there’s no possible way for Alex to vanish again.

“You going to let me up?” Alex asks mildly. Michael shakes his head. His grip on Alex’s wrists isn’t tight, but it is firm. “You gonna make it worth me not putting you on your ass?” 

“You promised you’d still be there in the morning,” Michael breaks, and immediately Alex looks contrite.

“Michael-“

“He took you and I couldn’t find you and I’ve spent the past six months torturing myself with all the ways he’s been hurting you and -“

He has no idea how the hell Alex manages it, especially without the leverage both legs would provide, but in a heartbeat, Michael is on his back and Alex is laid out flush on top of him, palms braced either side of Michael’s head and a fierce expression overwriting the earlier serenity on his face.

“You didn’t fail me, Michael,” he says firmly. Michael starts to protest, because that’s literally what he did, but Alex silences him with a kiss he feels all the way down to his bones.

He’s never going to win an argument with Alex if it gets him kissed like this, not when his toes curl against the sheets and his hands find themselves resting on the firm curve of his ass. He spreads his legs, makes more space for Alex between them, and sighs when they finally part, breathless and languid. Alex rests his head over Michael’s heartbeat, his breathing slowly starting to even out as Michael runs his fingers through soft, dark hair.

“You didn’t fail me,” Alex says again, softer now, his lips pressing absent kisses to Michael’s collarbone. “I didn’t call you because… because I didn’t want you on my father’s radar.”

“It’s not like he didn’t know I was there,” Michael says. Alex’s hair falls through his fingers, the softest thing Michael has ever touched. “It wouldn’t make a difference.”

“It would,” Alex says. “Trust me on that. He’s… I don’t want to talk about him. But I _am_ sorry.”

It’s not enough. Alex is hiding something from him.

But what right does Michael have to judge when it comes to secrets?

“Just tell me one thing?” Michael begs him. Turning his face to Michael’s, Alex’s chin rests against his chest, his brows furrow in curiosity. Michael's thumb brushes the plush curve of his bottom lip, and he smiles as they seem to chase after that fleeting touch. “Did he hurt you?”

Alex doesn’t hesitate. “No,” he says firmly. “I’m not that scared kid anymore. I won’t let him hurt either of us.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after 30k we're finally at the main story! Thank you so much for sticking with me this far. I hope you're still enjoying!

Of all the places Michael has ever expected to find himself, the middle of a parade has never been high on his list. Isobel, who doesn’t have a hair out of place despite the breeze, keeps shooting him a look that warns of high levels of sisterly excitement and Max, who is on duty and only looking in Michael’s direction every ten seconds instead of every five, looks almost constipated in his bewilderment. If he’s trying to figure out what the fuck is happening, Michael’s going to need him to draw up some kind of diagram and walk him through it when he does.

Michael’s never been one to lose sense of his faculties just because he’s been fucked stupid, but Alex is apparently the exception to every rule, and his brain is still back at the airstream. He’s wearing the green sweater and he’s shaved. He’s even done more than the bare minimum with his hair, which is to say he used the stupidly expensive cream Isobel bought him and now has actual curls he can run his fingers through. He’s the most turned out he’s probably ever been in his life, and he’s still convinced everyone in town is looking at him and seeing nothing but the morning of extremely filthy sex he’s had with his maybe-boyfriend.

He’s got no issue at all with people judging his sex life. He’s built something of a reputation for being a wild-night-no-strings-fun kind of guy and while he’s not fucked _everyone_ in town, he’s certainly fucked a _relation_ of everyone in town.

And he gives even less of a fuck if people care he’s there for Alex.

Actually, that’s not true. Or not entirely true, at least. He doesn’t care what other people think, but he does care about Alex. Michael, local drunk and town joke, is not the kind of person a Purple Heart war hero is supposed to end up with. The more time Michael spends standing here, sticking out like a sore thumb, the more likely it is that Alex will notice that.

Not that Alex is really aware of much right now. He, unlike Michael, doesn’t look like he’s been fucked six ways from Sunday - which is grossly unfair because he absolutely has. Twice. An Alex who doesn’t want to talk about things is an Alex who is shameless about distractions, and if not for the fact that they have to be here, Michael'd still be happily napping through the afterglow.

No, he’s polished and presentable and looking like a Proper US Hero should, almost as handsome in his uniform as he is out of it.

And wearing an expression that says he’d rather jump out of a plane without a parachute than spend another second being the center of everyone’s attention.

Michael thinks he’s the only one who knows him well enough to recognize it and that’s likely the problem. The whole town has turned out to welcome him back, including a number of people who treated him like shit when he was a kid here.

Exhibit A: Kyle Valenti, an egotistical ass even before the MD. He’s front and center. The rest of the football team are around: the same assholes who made both their lives hell for different reasons. Alex and Valenti used to be friends. They used to get on well. That’s an ongoing theme for Alex: people he trusts betraying him. Michael’s the one who’s got it figured: trust no one and never have to be disappointed.

Combine Alex - reportedly more relaxed under gunfire than he is standing on a podium having his praises sung by half the town - with Michael - who is probably going to get stoned to death on the way home for daring to defile Roswell’s Prodigal Son - and you have what amounts to the worst possible way to spend an afternoon.

Why is he even here? What magic does Alex possess that he can ask this, and Michael will come running?

_“I thought… I thought maybe I’d take my boyfriend.”_

Goddamnit, but Michael has never been anyone’s boyfriend before. He’s no clue what he’s doing.

And fuck Alex for beating him to the big romantic gesture. Michael’s running off a Hallmark definition of romance, here. He’s Following The Rules when it comes to pursuing someone he wants to be involved with. Seriously. Fuck Alex. There’s no guide book on how to manage mutual pursuits.

Then he gets hit by a pleading look from those unfairly expressive eyes and he’s here, semi out of a closet he’s never completely been in and alternating between sending Alex every ‘you suck’ vibe going and trying to physically exude support and security.

The fact that Alex is on crutches makes no difference in his ability to run for the fucking hills. He’s still standing proud because he’s a dignified man of honor, and because it’s a great fuck you to everyone who called him a pussy in high school.

Michael’s still here because he’s stupidly in love, and because he’ll take a thousand hypocritical small-town political showboating parades if it means get gets to stand by Alex’s side.

Christ, he really is a dumbass.

They’re now on speech four. Alex has stopped being a person in his own right and is now a metaphor in a long and rambling sermon, and it amazes Michael that they can be so self-absorbed as to throw a parade for a man who literally lost a leg in combat, and then proceed to keep him standing at attention for over half an hour.

By amazes, Michael means he’s about a half second away from pushing people off the podium with his mind.

Patience has never been his finest asset.

There’s also the fact that he’s standing next to Jesse Manes.

Or rather, he’s standing next to Jesse Manes, and Manes has both acknowledged his presence and not shot him in the face. He doesn’t look happy and probably never has in his life, but aside from a pulsing vein in his forehead, he says nothing even remotely antagonistic for a whole thirty minutes.

Michael, whose default mode is suspicious as hell, wonders what the actual fuck has happened in the last six months.

Jesse Manes, tolerating Michael’s presence. Alex, not giving a fuck either way.

And Michael, in the middle, wondering how his choices have led him here.

When the parade finally ends, Manes even nods his head at Michael in a form of farewell. When he approaches Alex and puts a hand on his elbow to get his attention, Alex doesn’t jump six feet in the air.

“I’m in the Twilight Zone,” Michael says to himself.

“Hank Long does have that effect on people,” Isobel says, looping her arm through his as the gathered town officials all start to head off in search of alcohol. “Happy is a good look for you.”

Michael tugs at the hem of his shirt self consciously. There are way too many sober people around for his comfort level. “Who says I’m happy?” he sulks. Why would anyone be happy in the middle of this three-ring circus?

He’s never seen Isobel look so smug. “You were practically writing ‘I love Alex Manes’ with your eyes. “You’re adorable.”

“I was not! And I’m not-“

“In love with me?” Alex asks, limping over to them both with a tired smile. He’s resting heavily on the crutch and Michael immediately moves to let him lean against his shoulder.

“Adorable,” Michael finishes. “But fuck you, Iz, for making fun of me.”

“It’s just too easy,” Isobel sighs happily. “You even did your hair!”

Michael feels no shame at all in putting Alex between him and his sister when she reaches up and tries to tug on his curls. “You’re a little adorable,” Alex laughs, letting Michael help him take some of the weight off his leg even as he’s used as a human shield.

“Whose side are you on?”

Alex kisses him on the cheek. In town. In public. On a podium. At a parade welcoming him back from war.

Michael’s brain short-circuits.

“Very adorable,” Alex amends.

Someone needs to draw up a Lost Item poster: _Alex’s fucks, last seen in Fallujah. Or maybe Germany._

He’s dimly aware of Isobel laughing her ass off at his expense before Alex lets out a soft, almost inaudible sound of discomfort. This is the first big thing he’s done since being cleared for duty, and it’s following a morning heavy in both physical activity and emotional heaviness. It’s every shred of control Michael has not to bundle Alex up into his arms and drive away into the sunset with him.

“Time to go?” he asks instead, knowing Alex well enough to know that anything close to an instruction or an order will be met with a stubbornness that borders on self-harm.

Alex doesn’t respond at first, prompting Isobel to quickly jump in. “Come to our place tomorrow night? Noah makes the most amazing pasta.”

Michael’s stomach, an ever predictable beast, rumbles at the mention of food. “So good,” he agrees.

It’s that which seems to force Alex into action. “That’d be nice, thank you.”

She waves off the thanks. “Just remember what I said about wine. And other things.”

“Yes ma’am,” Alex nods, far more seriously than a conversation about wine should really warrant.

Still, it makes Isobel sigh happily. “He’s so polite,” she says, going a little misty-eyed. “Please god, beat some manners into my brother?” She doesn’t notice them both flinch - Alex’s reactions are always minuscule, and Michael has long since trained himself to keep things behind a smile for her sake. She doesn’t mean any harm with it - she never means any harm - but a lot of work has gone into protecting her from the monsters in the dark and most of Michael’s childhood stays firmly in the shadows.

Alex sees it though. They’re two reflections in the same mirror in so many ways, and he sees it. “I don’t know,” he says, never breaking eye contact with Michael, “I kinda like him the way he is.” God fucking damnit, Alex Manes is an asshole. “Come on,” he says, wrapping his free hand around Michael’s arm and using him as a second crutch. “Let’s pick up some food and head out?”

“Tomorrow!” Isobel beams, kissing them both on the cheeks before rushing off in search of her husband.

“Have you told her anything?” Alex asks in a quiet voice as they slowly navigate the stairs off the podium.

“I haven’t told _you_ anything,” Michael points out. The look he gets in return is pointed. “She’s my sister. I want to protect her. That’s what brothers do, right?”

“I wouldn’t know,” says Alex. Michael’s never met any of Alex’s brothers - they’re all older - and he gets the impression they’re cut from the same cloth as their father.

Back on the podium, Jesse Manes watches them leave, his expression stony. If Alex is aware of the scrutiny, he’s ignoring it.

Michael drives them to the Crashdown and leaves Alex in the car before picking up an order to go. He remembers the chocolate malt milkshake Alex asked for on their first date, a day that seems like an eternity ago, and actually manages to meet Mr. Ortecho’s eye when the man teases him about buying a meal for two instead of his usual solo fare.

The food’ll go cold if they wait until they’re back at Michael’s place, so they pull over once they reach the outskirts of town, pop down the tailgate and watch the sunset.

The sound Alex makes when he takes the first bite of his burger is obscene. “Fuck, I missed this.”

“They didn’t let you get takeout at your super secret spy facility?” Michael teases, stealing one of Alex’s fries. He’s got himself a basic burger and a soda, but cash is tight and making sure Alex eats is the priority.

“Hardly,” Alex laughs, his shoulders finally relaxing from the stiff, formal posture of the parade. “Pretty much entirely vegetables and turkey.” Michael pulls a face. When Alex has finished his burger, he leans back and relaxes. “I had a dream like this,” he admits. “While I was deployed. You and me under the sky, just hanging out.”

“Reality living up to expectations?” he asks, almost afraid of the answer.

Alex closed his eyes in blissful contentment. “Better,” he says. “I hope you’ve got plans for the third date.”

“Isn’t that when people usually have sex?”

“Hate to break it to you, Guerin,” Alex snorts, “but we might’ve skipped a few stages. Maybe I’ll take you on a date instead? Fair’s fair.”

“Can we still do the sex thing?”

Alex doesn’t answer, but he does laugh, and when he pulls Michael down to rest beside him, he tucks himself close and lets himself be held, and damnit, Michael might just like that _more_ than the sex thing.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for some h/c! 
> 
> Thank you so much for the lovely comments you leave! I'm trying to catch up with replying, but please know they all bring me massive amounts of joy!

The floor of his trailer isn’t the least comfortable place Michael has ever slept - that’s reserved for a literal dog cage, thank you foster family number three - but it’s close to the bottom. He’s not old enough to ache the way he aches, and not young enough to get away with the shit that came second nature as a kid.

Groaning, he pushes up on one arm and squints through the early morning light, trying to identify what it is that’s woken him.

As sleep falls away, he remembers the previous night: Alex, falling asleep on the drive back, and Michael not wanting to wake him, not wanting him to try drive back to base as exhausted as he is. He remembers carrying Alex inside, something made far more difficult by the tight spaces than by the weight of him in his arms. Even Michael stubbing his toe on the frame of the bunk isn’t enough to wake him.

Alex gets the bunk. Michael snags a pillow and the spare blanket and curls up on the floor like a fucking puppy desperate to be close to his human. The analogy is probably more fitting than either of them are comfortable with.

Only now Alex is awake, and making soft sounds of pain, and Michael jumps from half asleep right into fight mode.

“Alex? Alex!”

Alex is stripped down to his boxers, his prosthetic propped by the door, and he’s practically gleaming with sweat as his body jerks in painful looking spasms.

“Meds,” Alex gasps. “Didn’t take my-“ he grits his teeth and bites back a howl of agony, fists jabbing at a muscle just below his right hip.

Fuck. Fuck, of course he’s going to be on medication. Michael’s a fucking idiot.

“Where-?”

Christ, what if they’re back at the base?

But then Alex manages to choke, “Bag. Jeep,” and Michael is stumbling, barefoot and in his boxers, out to Alex’s Jeep.

He snatches the bag and sprints back inside, unable to leave Alex alone for a second longer than necessary.

There’s… a lot of pills. He recognizes some: carisoprodol’s a muscle relaxant, that one makes sense. The codeine is more concerning and suggests Alex is in far more pain than he lets on. Fluoxetine is fairly self-explanatory: he’d be honestly surprised if Alex didn’t have PTSD after what happened and fluoxetine is one of the most commonly prescribed antidepressants used in its treatment. There are another three pill containers that appear to be fuller: gabapentin’s an epilepsy drug for seizure control. Temazepam and ketamine are, well… it’s clear Alex doesn’t take all the pills all the time. He probably has a detailed schedule that is adapted depending on his pain levels. Either way, Michael is furious with him for not taking them last night. And he’s furious with himself for not thinking.

It doesn’t matter how much of a brave face Alex puts on, six months ago, he lost a limb. He was in a coma with a traumatic head injury and a ribcage like a jigsaw puzzle. Michael should fucking know better than to believe his ‘I’m fine’ bullshit. Alex is the stoic asshole who said those exact words while curled in a fetal position on the back of Michael’s truck, the bruising over his kidneys so bad that just taking a piss made him vomit from the pain. Alex is not to be trusted with shit like this.

“Which ones?” Michael demands, not about to risk giving him shit like ketamine if he doesn’t need it right now.

Alex, his teeth grit together, hisses, “Carisoprodol. Codeine.” Michael checks the labels: two carisoprodol, two codeine. He shakes the pills out into his palm. On the bunk, Alex shakes his head and screws his eyes shut. “Four,” he says.

“But the label-“

“Guerin!” He figures Alex is talking about the codeine and reluctantly shakes another two pills out. It’s at least twelve hours since his last dose - probably closer to twenty-four by now, assuming he took them just before arriving at Michael’s yesterday.

Clutching pills and water, Michael makes his way back to the bunk. Alex’s hands are shaking so badly that Michael doesn’t bother passing him the pills, he just presses them one at a time into his mouth and carefully holds the water bottle so Alex can swallow them.

That done, he rocks back on his heels and feels fucking useless as Alex works himself through a carefully controlled set of breathing exercises. He doesn’t want to interrupt, doesn’t want to throw off his rhythm, but when the first muffled sob breaks through Alex’s stubborn resolve, he can’t just sit back and watch.

Carefully easing Alex’s shoulders off the bunk, Michael wedges himself up against the headboard and pulls Alex into his lap.

“Easy, darlin’,” he soothes, something relaxing in his gut when Alex grabs hold of his arm and holds on so tightly it’s like he fears he’ll drift away if he lets go. “I got you. Just relax for me, Alex, come on.”

Slowly, the sharp, jerky tremors tearing through Alex’s limbs ease as muscles relax and Michael is able to carefully draw him fully into an embrace. He lets Alex rest against him, supporting his weight and tracing a soothing pattern on the tight, straining muscles of his abdomen. When they finally relax and leave Alex boneless in his arms, Michael takes advantage of his closed eyes to nudge the sheets with his mind and draw them up over them both.

Letting out a long, deep breath, Alex finally speaks. “Ow,” he says plaintively, and Michael shouldn’t laugh - fuck, he _shouldn’t_ laugh - but something about the way Alex says it is ludicrously funny. A chuckle rumbles through his chest and Alex huffs. “Sure, laugh at the cripple.”

“Not laughing at you,” Michael promises, dropping a kiss to the crown of Alex’s head. “I’m laughing  _for_ you.” Alex turns enough to hide his face in Michael’s arm, a flush of embarrassment creeping across his face. “Hey,” Michael reaches down and draws him back with a finger under his chin. “You’ve never got to hide from me, sweetheart.”

“Sweetheart?” It’s hard to tell if the undertone of his voice is amusement or longing.

“Honeybunch? Dollface? Sugartits?” In his defense, the only experience he has with pet names is mostly colored by the things people holler at DeLuca before she boots them out of the Pony.

“Jesus Christ,” Alex groans, “sweetheart’s fine.”

Michael kisses him again, just because he can. “Do you need to eat something?” Codeine is a bitch on an empty stomach.

Alex doesn’t look like he’s thrilled by the idea, but he nods and directs Michael to a protein bar in the side pocket of his bag. Chewing on it slowly, he doesn’t make any effort to move from the circle of Michael’s arms, and it forces him to face up to the practicalities of their situation.

Alex lives on base. Michael lives in a trailer barely big enough for one man, let alone two. Then there’s Alex’s disability to consider. He might hate the idea of needing special treatment, but there simply are things he needs now that he can’t get here. Space, for one, to stretch and exercise and maintain the routine established in PT. A shower he can move in. A bed big enough to sleep comfortably. And shit, if he’s been prescribed anti-seizure tablets then there’s surely the risk that one day he might actually suffer one, and there are twenty different things he can crack his head open on just within reach now.

He wants to give Alex a home. He wants, hell, he wants to sleep next to him in an actual bed. He wants Alex with him, always, and not living in a soulless, lifeless military structure where Michael can’t even visit him without creating drama.

Michael’s spent years of his life homeless. Embarrassment has long since been starved from his system, but he can’t help but feel a stab of shame as he holds Alex and realizes how little he actually has to offer.

Alex’ll offer to pay rent on any place they might get together. He’s got a well-paid job and he’s been trying to give Michael a roof over his head since high school. And maybe it’s old-fashioned, but he can’t stand the idea of being dependent on anyone, not even Alex. He needs to be able to bring something of value to the table.

A second job, maybe? Or a _better_ job? Because there’s so many of those going spare around these parts…

“You’re thinking too loud,” Alex murmurs. “Making my head hurt.” He’s well and truly relaxed now, half asleep against Michael’s chest.

“Probably should grease the cogs,” Michael says wryly, “been a while since they’ve been used.”

“Bullshit, Guerin,” there’s no heat in Alex’s voice: he’s too dosed for that much energy. “You’re the smartest person I know. Seriously,” he adds when Michael laughs outright. “Your test scores were off the chart.”

“Don’t remember yours being anything to laugh at, either,” he says. Alex has a brain like a calculator.

“I’m good at math,” he corrects, “and I’m great with computers. That’s about it. You were top of the class in every subject. I don’t understand why you’re still here in Roswell. Any college would've snapped your hand off.”

Michael has no intention of telling him why he’s still here. He can’t, not without hinting at secrets he can’t share. He’s no idea then why he opens his mouth and says, “I got a full ride to UNM.”

He doesn’t know what Alex’s reaction will be but somehow isn’t surprised when he responds with pride. “Guerin, that’s incredible!” But then the implications of the last ten years sink in and it doesn’t matter that Alex is drugged to the eyeballs; he’ll never be stupid. “Did… did you not go because of…” his hand slides down Michael’s arm to brush across his mangled fingers.

Michael can hear the unspoken question: _is it my fault?_

“No. That’s not - some shit went down. Isobel and Max needed me. By the time they didn’t, that door was long closed.”

Alex is quiet long enough that Michael thinks he’s fallen asleep. Then, his voice whisper soft, he asks, “If you could go to college now, would you?”

Sometimes he thinks Alex has the same psychic by-road into Michael’s brain that Isobel and Max share. There’s no other reason he can be so good at getting directly to the root of whatever thoughts are contributing loudest to the noise in his head.

“It’s not like it’s ever going to happen,” he says, more bitterness than he cares for tight in his voice.

Alex laces his fingers loosely with Michael’s. “When - if - I leave the Air Force, I qualify for Vets Benefits,” he says slowly, “I was planning on getting my Masters. There’s a track I want to take at MIT and they have a great scholarship system. They’d bite your hand off if you applied.”

It takes Michael a good few minutes to process what Alex is saying to him, and when he does, all he can manage to respond with is, “Are you asking me to move to Boston with you?”

“Cambridge, but yes.” He’s still pliant in Michael’s arms - hell, he probably doesn’t have the energy for anything else, but Michael can feel the tension start to wind its way into his breathing. “Forget it. I talk shit when I’m high.”

Michael can’t stand hearing the defeat in his voice, but he’s equally incapable of indulging in that fantasy for even a second. If he lets his mind wander down paths like that - of a future he’s always dreamed of - the harsh bite of reality will kill him.

“We’ve been back together for a day and already you want to run away with me?” he keeps his voice light and gently teasing, and lets Alex soften in his arms again.

“I wanted to run away with you when we were seventeen.” He really _is_ high. No way would he admit that otherwise. Not with the edge of tears clinging to the words.

Since it’s not something he can dream of and lose, Michael lets his mind wander down that path. How different might things be if he’d taken one look at Alex’s bruised and bloody face and made different choices? If they’d gotten into Michael’s truck and driven until the world turned green and the stars were new?

No enlistment, that’s for sure. No war. No devastating physical trauma. No years of loneliness and misery.

Thinking about the roads not taken makes it impossible not to imagine the ones still open ahead of them. Maybe…

“I can’t leave,” he admits carefully. “Not yet. But maybe? Someday?”

“I’ve still got two years in my enlistment period,” Alex says tentatively.

Two years. Is that enough time for Michael to untangle the messy threads of his life and maybe make a future worth living?

Will two years be enough to change his mind about one day finishing what he started years ago?

There’s more than just Max and Isobel keeping him in Roswell. There’s the secret he’s not shared with anyone. There’s the hope he’s clung to since childhood and the desperate dream that out there among the stars is someone who loves him and wants him to come home.

Leaving with Alex means giving up on that dream.

But - but then, isn’t that what he wanted when he told Alex he'd fight for them?

This? This is so new, so unexpected. He’s never really believed that Alex might actually be his someday. That he might choose Michael and that Michael might find that place on Earth he’s always craved.

If he’s honest with himself, the impossible dream of Alex Manes has always been the backup plan. The unobtainable goal that’s made building the console and searching for a way home all the more important.

If the only thing on Earth he wants is always out of reach, why wouldn’t he pour everything into leaving?

Only Alex has said yes. Alex is here, in his arms. Alex wants a fucking future with him.

A devastated sob breaks free from a place deep down in the darkness. He presses his face into the curve of Alex’s shoulder and shudders through a riotous conflict of emotions that he can’t even begin to unpick.

He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve Alex. He’s always been planning on leaving.

Only now. Now…

“Michael?” Alex sounds small and confused, scared by the sudden outcry. He tries to turn, to look Michael in the eye, and the terror that if he does, somehow he’ll _know_ , sees Michael tightening his arms around him, holding him firmly in place. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.”

Michael can’t face him, but he’s equally unable to keep from sobbing. It’s that or leveling the inside of the trailer with his powers and Alex’ll be far less likely to freak out if Michael has to smoother tears against his neck. “Sorry,” he chokes, mortified at his lack of control when Alex so clearly needs him to be an anchor.

“It’s okay, Michael,” Alex lets Michael hold him, lets himself be the thing Michael can find some stability in, and that alone is enough to make him cry. “I got you.” He runs his hand up and down Michael’s arm, trying to impart a warmth that’s vanished without warning. “I got you. It’s okay. It’s just me.”

Michael’s never cried like this. Not as a kid, not after covering up murder, not after losing Alex time and time again. It makes no sense that he suddenly breaks down here, but the more Alex reassures him, the easier it is to let the tears fall.

He’s safe here.

 

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-chapter notes. This is probably going to be the last part I can update until Wednesday. If I'm able to get one up tomorrow I will, but it's not looking likely. Tomorrow is my birthday so I'm taking a long overdue vacation!
> 
> In regards to this chapter, there have been discussions of child abuse throughout the fic, but there's a particular story Alex recounts in the latter part of this chapter that deserves a warning of its own because seriously, fuck Jesse Manes.

The messages on Alex’s phone have been blowing up all afternoon. After an awkward ‘ _hi, still alive, sorry I booked_ ’ message to Blackburn he’s had thirty-seven irate rants from Carlos, a ‘call me’ from the Colonel, a long, tearful voicemail from Maddie Greengrass, and the entire script of the Bee Movie from Todd.

The latest message is also from Blackburn and consists of ‘ _sorry about your dick_ ’. Alex decides he doesn’t want to ask.

He’s kept tabs on them over the past six months. Officially, he’s had no computer access. Unofficially, he doesn’t actually need one. They’re okay, or as okay as possible, given the situation, but it’s only now Alex is cleared for duty that he dares make contact again. He knows who is responsible for disbanding the unit, and the last thing he wants is for them to get it into their head that they need to rescue Alex. Alex doesn’t need rescuing. Not from his father, not from Michael. Not from anything. He’ll deal with shit himself.

In amongst the veritable essay sent by Carlos and an encouraging pep-talks from Helen, Alex has three unread messages from his father, who has probably developed some kind of ulcer in the last few days.

He can wait. Alex isn’t bringing him into Michael’s home, or Isobel’s.

The meal, and the company, is perfect.

“-so then he and Max staged a fight outside the bar so I could sneak out the back without being seen!” Noah offers Alex another glass of wine and doesn’t push when Alex shakes his head. One small glass of red really is his limit these days. He’s had more than one lecture on the dangers of mixing his cocktail of drugs with booze.

Michael has the chair next to him and is angled enough so that their knees are almost touching. The arm closest to Alex rests on the back of Alex’s chair, a lazy, indolent slouch that really shouldn’t be as much of a turn on as it is.

All the things he knows should annoy him about Michael but don’t, _do_ annoy him in other guys. If that’s not a sign that Alex is in love, nothing is.

“Just how many fights _have_ you started at Maria’s bar?” Alex asks, a disapproving eyebrow raised in a way that’ll stay teasing so long as Michael at least tries to look contrite.

“Not that often!” Michael protests. “She bans me every week but she’s not turned the shotgun on me yet, so I figure I’m good.”

Maria is on the top of Alex’s reconnect list. It’s been years, and the few excited texts they’ve shared since his return aren't enough. Tomorrow, maybe, he, Maria and Mimi can head to the Crashdown and goof around over fries. He can tell her about Michael, and she can tell him just how much he needs to worry about Michael getting into fights for real.

“I keep telling you, you’ve got to find classier bars,” Isobel says, leaning back in her chair with a satisfied moan and a light pat on her stomach. The hopelessly adoring looks she’s been sending Noah all afternoon would be nauseating if Alex doesn’t know he and Michael have been doing the same.

“What,” Michael indicates himself with the hand that’s not braced on Alex’s chair, “about me screams ‘classy’, Isobel?”

“Absolutely nothing,” she agrees. “Alex, on the other hand-“

“Leave me out of this!” Alex’s protests fall unnoticed into the void.

“-has hopefully grown out of that terribly cliched emo punk thing and actually looks like he knows how to brush his hair.”

Alex can’t stop himself from laughing as Michael starts to pout. “You know I can’t do the brush thing!” He flails his hand at his head despairingly. Alex, taking pity on him, reaches over to pat down a particularly wild section of curls.

“Not to be that asshole,” Noah says, “but can you guys even go into the Pony without getting shit from the… clientele?” He pulls a face, no doubt thinking of all the times he’s come across the Pony’s regulars in court.

He’s got a fair point, which is why Alex has no intention of actually going there _with_ Michael. Though Michael apparently thinks otherwise.

“They give us shit, I’ll break their legs,” he says with a grim smile.

“No,” Alex pats his knee. “You won’t. Because we’re grown-ups who don’t have to resort to violence to get things done.”

He can’t hear what Michael mutters under his breath, but he gets the impression it’s not flattering.

Sensing a potential downturn in his mood, Isobel stands. “Help me with the dishes,” she says with all the authority of a sister. Alex immediately rises to help. “Don’t even think about it, Manes,” she glares.

“Actually, Alex, can I borrow you for a second?” Alex looks at Noah in surprise, but nods and sends a reassuring smile in Michael’s direction. No doubt he’s in for another ‘be nice to my brother or I’ll remove your other leg’ kind of speech, but since there’s a such a short supply of people who actually want to look after Michael, Alex can’t find it in himself to be offended.

Following Noah into a large office with stunning panoramic views of the desert, Alex gratefully sinks into the chair offered to him. Yesterday was a push too far in a lot of directions, and he’s paying for it today. Still, he’d not miss this for the world.

“Everything okay?” he asks, trying to reconcile this kind, sweet, utterly besotted man with any kind of lawyer he’s met, and feeling the need to put him at ease.

“Oh, yeah, I’m good, man,” Noah says brightly. “I was gonna ask you to swing by the office next week, but I figured two birds-“ he reaches into a drawer behind his desk and pulls out a thick envelope. “My office looks after the estate left behind by Jim Valenti,” he says, surprising Alex. “You’re named in his will.”

Alex stares at him, dumbfounded. “I- Jim’s dead?”

He should’ve realized yesterday when he wasn’t at the parade, but in truth, he was too preoccupied fighting off the urge to run for the hills. He’s never been a fan of crowds and is even less a fan of that much attention. 

Noah rapidly turns pale with mortification. “I’m so sorry, I presumed you knew.”

“I, no.” Jim’s the same age as his father - not nearly old enough to die of natural causes. “How did he die?”

“Cancer,” Noah says, fetching Alex a bottle of water from a small bottle fridge by the bookshelf. “By the time they caught it, he only had days left to live.”

“Jesus,” he whispers, his thoughts immediately turning to Kyle and his mom. No matter how messy things might’ve ended up between him and Kyle, there’s a part of him that hates the idea of not being there to comfort his childhood friend. “When did it happen?”

“Eight months ago,” Noah says, taking the seat next to him and leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees. He’s got gentle eyes and there’s a warmth to him that makes it easy to see why Isobel is so hopelessly in love. “I suppose you were in Iraq then.”

Eight months ago, Alex was getting shot at on a regular basis and thought himself happy - or as happy as possible in a life without Michael. It’s strange, looking back now at everything that’s changed and everything he’s lost. It’s even stranger to acknowledge how much he’s gained.

Noah hands him the envelope. Inside are the deeds to Jim’s old hunting cabin, and a key. They sit in the palm of Alex’s hand, a beacon he can’t quite understand.

He distantly hears Noah says, “He’s had some bad news. I’m sorry, I should’ve thought-” then Michael’s hand is on his shoulder, strong and supportive.

“Alex?” There’s so much concern in his eyes, and a quiet plea for Alex to tell him what he needs him to be.

“Are you doing anything? Now?”

Michael shakes his head. “Only place I gotta be is here,” and he takes Alex’s hand. “What do you need?”

“To take a drive.”

 

* * *

 

 

Michael doesn’t ask for anything more than directions. After making their apologies to Noah and Isobel - who insists on sending them away with leftovers - Michael drives them fifteen miles out of town.

It’s dusk by the time they arrive at Jim Valenti’s cabin, but there’s enough remaining light to still see well.

“What is this place?” Michael finally breaks the silence, curiosity overriding the need for quiet peace.

“Used to be Sheriff Valenti’s hunting cabin. He left it to me in his will.”

The door opens a little stiffly, a wall of stale air rushing to meet them as they step across the threshold. It might’ve been years since anyone’s been here, but an immediate sense of calm falls over Alex as he looks around the old, familiar space.

“I didn’t know you guys were close?”

Alex nods, leaning against the arm of a couch he’s slept on a dozen times over the years. “When I was a kid. Kyle wasn’t always a total dick, and our dads knew each other from way back. We used to come up here on weekends.”

Michael sits beside him, slightly lower on the couch, his shoulder brushing Alex’s side. “You must’ve been important to him.”

“I didn’t think so, but-“ he closes his eyes and sighs, seeing Jim’s kind, weathered face smiling encouragingly, gentle and competent as he cleans the bloody gouges on his hands. When he opens his eyes, Michael is close enough to lean in to. “When I was fifteen, I'd just started to get that I liked guys, that it was the reason why my dad had... changed.” It takes Alex a few minutes to sort through his thoughts and through it all, Michael waits patiently. That night serves as the tipping point in an increasingly volatile father-son relationship, but it lacked the physical violence that would become commonplace. No, it was something altogether worse. “He woke me up in the middle of the night and we drove out past Salt Creek. When we got out of the truck, he gave me a shovel. Took me about an hour before I realized I was digging my own grave.”

The front door, which has been open to let in the air, suddenly slams shut with enough force to shake every picture on the walls off their hooks. Michael jumps higher than Alex, a flash of panic in his eyes that fades after a few moments of assessing his environment and assuring himself that they're safe. Alex imagines there were a lot of slammed doors and loud, violent noises in his childhood - a stark opposite to the sociopathic silence that often permeated Alex’s own.

“Sorry,” Michael says, his eyes a wild, unnaturally bright amber, like a prey animal caught in a trap.

“You're not responsible for the wind, Guerin.” Alex reaches out and squeezes his hand. He half expects him to pull away, but if anything, Michael has only been holding on tighter ever since he got back.

Michael nods and swallows forcefully before turning those bright eyes on Alex, his heart on his sleeve. Alex has no idea how he's survived in the world this long with those vulnerable, hurting eyes, but he does know he's willing to do anything to shelter that last shred of innocence.

“What- what happened?”

Obviously, Alex didn't end up buried in the desert.

Alex sighs. “It was probably three or four am by the time he let me stop. It was too deep to climb out of without help. And he wouldn't help.” Now, as an adult, he's pretty sure his dad never planned on actually killing him that night, but at the time... “He said no one would miss me. That he'd tell anyone who asked that I just ran away.” The whole cabin shakes this time. Christ, the wind must really be picking up. “He was probably planning on coming back for me in a day or so; give me enough time to ‘rethink my life choices’ but it started to get light and I kinda flipped out.” An understatement, perhaps.

“Jesus, Alex.” Michael’s got that gutshot expression on his face, the one that tears a matching hole in Alex’s heart. He smiles, reassuring, and tries to convey that he’s okay, that it was a long time ago, and so much worse has happened since.

“I got out,” he says, though ‘clawed’ might be a better description, “and I started walking.” Another simplification, but there’s no need to go into detail. “Jim Valenti found me on the side of the road.” He’d been terrified at the time, but in hindsight, being picked up by the local Sheriff was literally the best thing that could’ve happened to a barefoot teenager wandering the desert in his pajamas at six am. “I freaked out when he tried to take me home, told him I’d snuck out with kids from school and they’d left me there as a prank, that my dad would kill me if he knew.” Michael flinches and Alex can’t help but smile bitterly at the irony. “So he brought me here-“ he waves a hand at the cabin, “got me cleaned up, let me sleep, and told my dad I’d been at his place with Kyle.”

“You didn’t tell him what really happened?”

“He and my dad were friends for decades,” Alex explains. “I wasn’t sure he’d believe me, or-“ he falls silent, his adult self ashamed of the suspicions he’d allowed to isolate him. He has no idea how to verbalize what he’s feeling, but Michael merely nods.

“Which is worse? That they don’t believe you, or they don’t care?” He says, and yeah, he gets it.

“Got it in one,” Alex admits. “I didn’t tell him. But he did start paying more attention. When it got bad, he tried to intervene.”

Michael grimaces. “Bet that went well.”

Alex’s laugh isn’t a joyous one. “I never imagined he’d leave me this place,” he says instead. “I’ve not spoken to him in years.”

“He wanted you to have someplace safe,” Michael says, his eyes bright with understanding. “You want me to help you move your stuff? I can fix up that window,” he nods at the broken window frame.

“Well, we’re definitely redecorating,” Alex says, eyeing the various hunting trophies with distaste. “I’ve no idea if the generator even works anymore.” Michael stands, already rolling his sleeves up. “You’re gonna look at it now?”

“Magic mechanic hands, remember? I can fix it.” The wounded buck wildness has left his eyes and that slow, smug smirk Alex loves is back in place. Goddamn, but he’s beautiful.

And he’s as good as his word. Five minutes later, the lights flare to life and his triumphant cheer can be heard even from inside. There’s still a small stack of firewood on the porch, so Alex busies himself with starting a fire. They don’t have any supplies other than the bottled water and leftovers in the car, but he figures they can take an early morning trip into town and stock up. He’s still got forty-eight hours before he’s due back on base, and he intends to enjoy every minute.

By the time Michael returns, Alex has a small fire crackling merrily away and is investigating the closets.

“There’s a load of non-perishables in the kitchen,” Michael says, absently rubbing a smear of grease from his cheek.

“And I found blankets,” Alex adds, a slow grin spreading across his face. “I’ll need to get us fresh bedding in town tomorrow, but I figured for now we can camp in front of the fireplace.”

Michael’s face, already soft with pride at feeling useful, lights up like the sky on the 4th July. “You want me to stay?”

There’s so much Alex can say to that. That he wants Michael with him always, forever, and that now he has him, they’re never going back to the way things were before.

He wants to tell him that everyone who ever made him feel unwanted and unloved is at the top of Alex’s shit list, and that he _is_ going to start working through it one by one.

He wants to say a million things, but he’s cautioned by the memory of Michael sobbing against him that morning, raw and vulnerable in ways Alex has never seen before. Michael is so unused to kindness, so wary of people’s motivations, that saying all those things to him now will only further unbalance him. They have all the time in the world to work together on overcoming the monsters in the past. Tonight, they can just be.

“Well someone needs to keep me warm,” he smiles. "It gets cold out here."

Michael takes the blankets from him with a feather-light kiss. “I volunteer! Wait, does this class as a third date?”

Overflowing with affection, Alex shakes his head in adoring dispare. “No!”

“Oh,” Michael’s face falls. “Sex in a log cabin in front of an open fire would be super fucking romantic, though.”

“Super,” Alex teases, closing the gap between them and unfastening the buttons of Michael’s shirt slowly. “What did you have in mind?”

There’s something incredible about being able to turn Michael to putty in his hands, something more powerful than anything else in the world. Michael shudders as Alex brushes fingers across his stomach, his lips parting, an invitation if ever there were one.

The world tips on its axis as Michael manages to bridge the gap between horny desperation and tender carefulness, the couch cushions suddenly soft beneath them and the strong lines of his back and shoulders a cage Alex has no desire to escape from.

It’s not an answer, but then Michael’s always been better with actions than he is with words.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been raining non-stop during my tropical paradise vacation because of course it has, so here, have a sneaky update before tonight's ep!

“Are you going to stop scowling at me?” Alex asks, raising an eyebrow expectantly. He’s come into this conversation fully prepared for Michael’s stubborn independence to cause a roadblock, and, surprise surprise...

“I’m not scowling,” Michael snaps, the expression in question deepening to as yet unseen levels of petulant grumpiness.

Alex has spent nearly a decade in the military, a place where backchat and attitude aren’t typically met with anything other than an ear-blistering and a clipped slap to the back of the head. With the exception of Blackburn and Greengrass - who are his unit and so don't count - no one has dared give Alex attitude in years. Which might go a long way to explaining why he wants to meet Michael’s furrowed brow and rapid descent into dickishness with an affectionate kiss and not something sterner.

That said, for all that he understands and even empathizes with Michael’s current mood, Alex is, above all things, practical. “There’s a lot of work that needs doing on the cabin if we want to stay here long term,” he says, trying to approach the topic from a different angle.

“And I said I can do it,” Michael has his arms crossed and it’s that blaring indication of distress that stops Alex just walking out and leaving him to cool his heels. He’s not hiding behind the prickly sarcasm that Alex has encountered sporadically over their years and he clearly is trying to meet Alex halfway.

“And I’m not paying you for the work because-“

“I don’t _want_ your charity.”

“-because it’s your home, too,” Alex continues on patiently, ignoring his outburst. He knows where this is coming from: Michael needs to feel useful in order to internally justify any interest someone might show in him, and he’s embarrassed. That’s not something Alex can ease by coddling, and he can’t undo twenty years of emotional trauma in one conversation. “But that doesn’t mean you should be expected to pay for it as well.”

“I’m the one with the wholesale connections,” Michael points out, slowly cooling as Alex refuses to add fuel to the fire.

“Sure,” Alex agrees, “and that’s great. The only construction experience I have is treehouse related. But we’re partners, right?” The question seems to catch Michael off guard and knocks the scowl right off his face. Encouraged, Alex presses forward. “So let me do this? Please? I need to not be completely useless.”

Michael’s vulnerabilities are exposed, so Alex lays his own down beside them. Michael, who, for all his attitude and swagger doesn’t have a cruel bone in his body, moves immediately to shelter them. He wraps a hand around Alex’s neck and draws their foreheads together. “You’re not useless,” he breathes.

“Pretty sure I’d fall off the roof and break my neck even with two legs,” Alex says dryly.

Michael starts to argue, then clearly thinks it through and stops himself. “Gravity just… isn’t your friend,” he says, defensiveness slowly giving way to affection.

“You calling me clumsy, Guerin?” Crisis averted. They’re going to fight some times, of course they are, but Alex never wants it to be over something like this.

“I’m sayin’,” Michael smirks, smooth as wet velvet, “the only thing you should be climbing on top of is me.”

It takes Alex all of three seconds to plant him on his ass on the couch. “We are not having sex again,” he says sternly.

“But we were totally fighting,” Michael protests hopefully.

“ _You_ were fighting.”

“There should be make-up sex.”

Alex grabs his keys and his crutch. “Good-bye, Guerin,” he says, opening the cabin door. “Don’t fall off the roof.”

Flapping dramatically over the arm of the couch, Michael’s wide doe eyes are ridiculously pleading. “You’re no fun, Captain Manes.”

Alex shuffles back inside just enough to drop a kiss atop wild curls. “I’ll be home tonight, and we can have all the sex you want.” Bribing Michael with sex is a little like bribing a kid with candy and Alex has no idea how to feel about that.

“Say it again,” Michael begs.

“We can have all the sex you want.” Alex adopts a tone of tired patience.

“No. The other bit.”

Closing his eyes, Alex leans down for another kiss, this time angling Michael’s chin up enough for him to press their mouths together. “I’ll be home later, Michael,” he says.

Being parted from Michael, even for a few hours, feels like a hardship, but there are far worse ways to leave than with those raw, hopeful eyes following him.

 

* * *

 

 

“Alex Manes,” Maria isn’t behind the bar when Alex walks into the Wild Pony: she’s stood in the doorway waiting for him. Her arms are crossed in a way remarkably similar to Michael’s and her expression is firm. For a terrible moment, he fears he’s lost one of the truest friendships he’s ever know. He’s been a crappy friend. It’s easy to come up with excuses when you’re five thousand miles away, but he could’ve written more. He could’ve visited Roswell more frequently. Keeping Michael safe hasn’t required a sacrifice of all his other childhood relationships, and yet…

He opens his mouth, hopelessly lost and with no idea how to bridge the gap, and in true Maria fashion, she reaches forward before the struggle can overwhelm him.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulls him into a hug that is every bit as safe and grounding as it was when they were kids. Relief leaves him unsteady on his feet, but she’s got him there, too. Gently taking his hand and pulling him to sit down with her in a booth, they sit on opposite sides of the table, fingers curled together. She’s always had the most stunningly soulful eyes, ones that seem to cut through the veneers of the world to see the truth in all things. Right now they are as sad as they are warm. “Oh, Alex,” she whispers, and Alex can’t help feeling like she’s just seen into his soul and witnessed every unhealed bruise.

“Hey, Maria,” he says, his smile honest and far more wobbly than he cares for.

She touches a finger under each of her eyes, ridding herself of runaway emotions before they can ruin her perfect eye makeup. “ _Hey, Maria_ , he says. Roswell’s Prodigal Son wanders into my bar lookin’ all handsome and that’s all I get?”

“I love you. I missed you. I’m sorry I suck as a penpal?” Alex tries.

She nods, taking his hand again and squeezing tightly. “Better. You and Liz are in competition for the world’s least communicative friend.”

Alex takes the hit head-on: it’s well deserved.

“And if I bought you and Mimi lunch tomorrow to apologize?” he asks hopefully.

“Mom would like to see you,” Maria agrees. “I couldn’t care less. At all.”

“Of course not,” Alex nods, grinning. “So I’ll pick you up at thirteen hundred?”

“If that’s sexy airman talk for one, then sure,” Maria finally gives him one of her best smiles before sighing. “How are you, Alex?”

He takes a moment to think about it. “Better than expected,” he admits. It’s the least complicated way of looking at things.

“I saw your dad yesterday. It must be strange, being on the same base.”

“Flint’s around, too,” Alex says, thinking of his eldest brother and thanking every star in the sky that he’s not tried the same familial bonding his dad has. “It’s a real Manes family reunion.”

The face she pulls reflects every ounce of dislike she has for his family: she hated them even before Jesse decided the fastest way to Father of the Year was with his fists. “Well, you know you’ll always be my family,” she tells him, and then, with the most dramatic sigh he’s ever heard from her, adds, “and you can tell Guerin I’ll clear his tab so long as you promise to chaperone any future visits.”

Of course she knows about Michael. There’s probably not a soul in town who doesn’t after the stunt Alex pulled at the parade. Trust Maria to bring him up in the least confrontational way possible.

“Is he that bad?” Alex doesn’t know why he’s asking. He knows for a fact Michael self medicates with booze and bar fights. Context doesn’t hurt though, and it’s better to know if it’s a frequent occurrence or a rarity.

Tactfully, Maria doesn’t throw Michael under the bus. “I think you’re gonna be good for him,” is what she says. “And I know he’s gonna be good for you. If you let him take care of you.”

“He does,” Alex says, wondering if the overwhelming love he feels for Michael is as clear on his face as he fears it is. It must be. Maria squeezes his hand again, her eyes bright with happiness for him. “What about you?” he asks. “How’s Maria DeLuca doing on the romance front?”

“Have you ever fucked a guy named Chad?” She asks.

“In Roswell… or….”

“Anywhere. Ever.”

“I can’t say I have.”

“Smart,” she says. “Avoid at all costs.”

There’s a story there she isn’t quite ready to tell him, but he files the name away for revisiting and cringes. “That bad?”

Her shrug says it all. “But now my wingman’s back in town…”

He presses a hand to his heart, “I promise to solemnly uphold the sacred duties of a best friend and get you laid by someone who isn’t a Chad.”

She beams at him, all forgiven. “Just don’t bring Guerin.”

Alex dares to imagine what might happen if he brought Michael along and decides he’d rather lock himself in an airplane bathroom with Blackburn for six hours. “I’ll leave him at home,” he says quickly.

There’s a thought. Home. And Michael, waiting for him.

 

* * *

 

  
Alex’s father is waiting for him when he enters the bunker currently home to the ops center for Project Shepard. It’s perpetually cold inside, but Alex refuses to shiver from anything, be it temperature or the company. There’s one main computer console, although there are several smaller stations, and its there Alex heads, booting the system and waiting for his OS to unlock.

“You didn’t respond to my messages,” his dad says, calmly setting a mug of coffee down on the desk for Alex.

“You don’t think it’d be suspicious for us to suddenly be best buddies after everything?” Alex doesn’t look at him, too focused on opening the programs he’s left running while he’s been with Michael. He has an alert set up on his phone so he’ll get any data long before his dad figures out how to bypass the encryptions, but it’s been all silent on the western front, so to speak, and the software is still working through the algorithms it’s been programmed to run.

“You shouldn’t be leaving your phone where it can be compromised,” his dad says sternly.

A part of Alex bitterly wants to tell him that Michael doesn’t just have access to his phone, but that he fucked Alex so thoroughly that morning that he could’ve used it to call in an alien invasion and Alex’d be none the wiser.

He bites his tongue and distracts himself with coffee instead.

It’s been abundantly clear from the get-to that Project Shepard is lacking the kind of funding Alex is used to working with. The technology is massively out of date and he’s had to rewrite the OS from the bare bones up. Jesse Manes might be the shit when it comes to being a hardass, but he’s way out of Alex’s league when it comes to technology, and it’s clearly a problem for him. A good leader knows a little about a lot, enough at least to be able to support and troubleshoot a good soldier’s work, and to see through the bullshit when it's being fed to them. Alec can run rings around his dad without him ever being the wiser.

“You need to be careful, son,” Jesse says, his tone soft and almost caring.

Alex can’t help his response. “We’re using protection, if that’s what you mean?” the challenge laid down to test waters that have been in a constant state of flux for months. Jesse’s jaw clenches, but it’s the only outward sign of disgust he makes.

“I mean it, Alex. You might think you’ve got him fooled, that you’re in control of the situation, but it’s never that easy. You have no idea what he’s capable of.”

Now, more than ever, he’s regretting not telling the old man to fuck off when he had the chance. “If Michael was an alien, I’d know about it. That’s the whole point of us being together right now, isn’t it? To gather evidence.” By this point, Alex knows Michael’s body better than he knows his own. Aside from being adorably and unexpectedly ticklish, there’s absolutely nothing noteworthy there. 

“You’ve accepted the existence of aliens,” Jesse says, and yes. He has. He can’t not. Not when he’s spending his working hours building an AI capable of translating an actual alien language. Not when he’s seen recordings of the autopsies and held alien remains in his hands.

The existence of extraterrestrial life he can work with. He’s scientifically minded, and probability alone makes it unlikely they are the only sentient life in the universe. It’s awe-inspiring and a little humbling to be faced with the evidence.

But he’s drawing the line at Michael being fucking ET.

“Yes,” Alex says, “and I’ve gotten close to Michael, just like you wanted. He’s painfully human.”

It’s taken seeing Project Shepard up close to put the pieces together in his mind, but he’s finally figured it out. Alex has had just enough therapy for his PTSD to understand that there’s something fundamentally broken in his father’s head. He’s taken this - aliens and coverups and a family history deeply entwined with keeping secrets - and his reality has fractured. Instead of being a sordid chapter of the past, it’s become the cornerstone of deeply ingrained psychosis.

Jesse has established himself as the guardian of humanity, on the frontline of protecting the world from a dangerous alien race. Every aspect of his life feeds into it. Every good thing, every bad thing.

After years of trying to beat the gay out of Alex, he’s gone and ascribed a cause far more credible to his delusion. It’s not his fault Alex is gay. Hell, it’s not even Alex’s fault. It’s the aliens. His son isn’t a perverted monster, he’s a victim.

Michael isn’t an alien. He’s just the first boy Alex ever slept with. He’s become the physical embodiment of Jesse Manes’s psychotic break.

The problem Alex has is that because aliens _are_ real, because they _did_ crash-land in Roswell, and because there _was_ a coverup, there’s no mirror Alex can hold up to him. Any attempt to untangle the two completely different things - aliens and Alex’s sexuality - only feeds into his paranoia.

It’s shit for many reasons, not least of which is that Alex now feels guilty for pushing his dad over the edge.

Bad enough he can never earn forgiveness for Michael’s trauma, but he’s now faced with the reality that he really does deserve everything Jesse has done to him over the years.

“How much longer will this take?” his dad asks, pointing at the monitor. The fact that he’s dropping the Michael subject isn’t a good thing. He’s a patient man, but that patience is in direct conflict with the disgust he feels for Alex’s sexuality and his relationship with Michael. There’s only so long Alex can safely bridge the space between the two before Jesse snaps again.

This time, he’ll be prepared.

This time, the safest place for Michael is by Alex’s side.

“It’s trying to translate an alien language we have no prior knowledge of based on a mathematical construct that might not even exist at its point of origin,” Alex says for what feels like the hundredth time. “It’s not Google Translate.”

No, it’s going to take time. Time in which he can hopefully come up with a plan to remove the threat of Jesse Manes for good.

He's failed Michael once.

He won’t do so again.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually cut this one down because it originally ended in a super dark place and no one needs that after last night's episode! 
> 
> So here, have a chapter that is (mostly) fluffy!

Something has shifted between them. Something irrevocable and profound in ways Michael will never have the words to describe. It happens all at once, a dividing line between Before and After that leaves him breathless. Eyes burning, he stares up at the ceiling over his head and realizes that he knows the beams well enough to seek out the knots in the wood that look like animals.

It’s taken weeks - taken learning that while Alex might have the patience of a saint, _he_ sure as hell doesn’t - but as he counts out the old, slightly wonky nails that hold beams in place, he finally understands a truth that’s been evading him his whole life.

He’s too hot, the crisp white, freshly laundered sheets pushed down to his hips, and almost discarding Michael entirely in favor of wrapping itself around the long, lean limbs pressed up against him. Alex is always cold, always gravitating to Michael and shoving frigid hands under his shirt, seeking heat. Michael has the warmth to spare, and any excuse to have Alex in his arms is a good one.

That’s the shift. That’s what’s changed. It feels impossible to him: he’s always loved Alex, always wanted to be with him and to build a life together, but that want, that need, has been little more than a decade of dreams and fantasies and a teenager’s conviction that love, true love, is eternal and unbreakable.

He’s been in love with the idea of Alex Manes, a man who exists in levels of perfection that elevate him beyond the rest of humanity and place him on a pedestal to be protected and desired and worshiped in equal amounts.

After three weeks of living with Alex, of sharing his bed every night, Michael knows that perfect Alex doesn’t exist.

Alex Manes is flawed and broken and painfully human. He’s stubborn, blunt, reserved and bullheadedly inclined to close off all means of communication when pushed to the limits of his endurance. He works too hard and for too many hours and he comes home with shadows in his eyes that he’ll never discuss with Michael, classified or not. He is, by Michael’s reckoning, the most infuriating man on the planet, so pathologically inclined towards protecting others that he’ll place himself in oncoming traffic purely to deflect a hit aimed at an innocent.

And Michael loves him so much it hurts. Alex, this flawed, wounded, haunted man, is real in the way his dream can never be, and he’s so, so much better than the fantasy.

He also has no right to have skin as soft as he does. Michael's fingers slide over the wing of a shoulder blade and across tendons softened in sleep. There are scars he won’t linger on today, each an accessory with a story that only adds to his beauty. A map of pain overcome and endured, now left in the past. In Michael’s arms, there’ll never be a chance for future hurt.

Alex is a light sleeper, something they both share, but that has taken time to navigate together. Michael has difficulty falling asleep. His mind is always in overdrive, though it’s easier to find the quiet when Alex is warm against him.

Alex is entirely the opposite. He has a soldier’s ability to fall asleep in seconds, and in almost any situation. Michael’s found him asleep at the kitchen table, in the shower and once while standing upright, leaning against the porch while he watched Michael work on the Jeep. His problem isn’t getting to sleep, it’s staying asleep. He wakes frequently. Sometimes it’s prompted by nothing more than the need to sit up and scope the room for threats. Those are actually the easiest to handle; once Alex is satisfied, he’ll drop right off again, asleep before he even touches the pillow. The times Michael wakes him by rolling over or stretching are more an irritation than anything, an eye-opening, scarily coherent for a fraction of a second, and then closing again. _Try sharing a bunk with Carlos_ , is Alex’s response when Michael asks if it bothers him. _He’s a hugger_.

The nightmares are the real issue. Michael has troubled dreams, but he’s learned how to control them. When darkness edges into his subconsciousness, he can usually push it aside, or hold it at bay long enough to wake himself up.

Alex’s nightmares are silent, unpredictable and at times incredibly violent. He’s thrown himself out of bed more than once, taking cover behind the frame and inevitably fucking his pain levels for the day. Michael usually wakes first on those nights, beckoned by the beacon of Alex’s distress. On the rare occasion he doesn’t, they both end up having bad days.

Tonight though, it’s been nothing but peace. Rich home cooking thanks to Michael’s new found obsession with the Food Network followed by lazy cuddles on the couch and a pre-sleep routine they’ve finally got down to less than an hour, stretches and medication and showering included. Alex is asleep first and for once Michael isn’t far behind him.

And now this, that perfect moment where he can caress warm, supple skin and watch a smile slowly draw Alex into the morning.

“Hmm,” he says, burrowing closer, an arm snug around Michael’s waist. “Sleep okay?”

“I love you,” he says, because that’s a reasonable answer when asked that question. Still half asleep, Alex’s expression is unguarded and filled with exquisite joy. He presses an answering kiss to Michael’s chest, the devotion in that one touch louder than unspoken words will ever be.

It’s still early, too early for Alex to even have to think about getting up for work, so Michael indulges himself and traces his fingers slowly down across the dip of his spine and up over the curve of his ass. He’s seen the exercises Alex has to do for his prescribed PT and they are intense, but there’s no denying Michael doesn’t enjoy reaping the benefits.

“Do you want-?”

One thing he’s learned is that Alex isn’t in the mood for sex as often as Michael is. Granted, Michael’s mind is usually in the gutter where Alex is concerned so not as often is still probably more than most new couples. Alex is never shy or hesitant when it comes to telling Michael what he wants and Michael probably broadcasts his desire in HD, but asking now, like this, is the best way. Michael is still learning how much Alex’s natural sex drive balances with the physical pain and limitations and since both vary daily it’s an ongoing, sometimes unspoken conversation.

So he waits for Alex to tell him what he wants, patient and ready to be equally satisfied with either a continuation of sleepy snuggling or an escalation into something more.

Alex’s answer comes in the form of a thumb brushed over Michael’s nipple and a shuffle that allows Michael to dip his wandering hand into the crease of his buttocks.

“Morning sex is the best sex,” Michael says happily, arching into Alex’s touch.

“You said that about couch sex,” Alex hums, propping himself up on one arm so he can press teasing kisses into Michael’s neck.

“Couch sex is the best sex to have on the couch,” Michael clarifies. “Morning sex is the best sex to have in the morning.” He can feel Alex smile against his throat and knows that Alex might be the only person in the world to appreciate his sense of humor.

“It’s way too early for you to be this excitable.” The thumb circling his nipple is joined by a forefinger and a spark of sharp want races down his spine as Alex pinches gently. Michael gets his own back by pressing a finger lightly against the tight ring of his ass. “Fuck…”

“That’s the idea,” Michael agrees. He’s careful, untangling himself from Alex’s arms and easing him down into the pillows. Excitable, yes, enthusiastic, absolutely, but these are the moments Alex is at his most unguarded, and they aren’t moments to be met with anything other than tenderness. It’s a time to be slow and gentle and all of the things Michael has never associated with sex outside of sex with Alex. He likes to think he’s an attentive lover, but no one has ever warranted the level of care and devotion he wants to shower on Alex.

Before he’s able to find a comfortable position further down the bed, Alex pushes up on one arm and leans back, capturing Michael in the kind of kiss that’s fast become his secret weapon. It’s slow and sensual and it makes Michael’s toes curl even as it fries any remaining brain cells he has.

“I love you,” Michael says again when they part, stupidly, hopelessly in love and unashamed to admit it.

Alex’s answer is a smile that’s soft at the edges, honest and open and somehow sadder than Michael ever wants it to be.

“I know,” he says back. It’s not an ‘I love you too,’ but Michael’s seen Star Wars; he gets the reference and doesn’t give a fuck if that makes him Leia. Leia’s a fucking badass. Then the sadness melts and he spreads his legs enticingly. “Now, don’t you have better things to be doing with that mouth?”

 

* * *

 

 

Michael’s commandeered the coffee table to rewire one of the bedroom lamps, leaving Alex the desk by the door. He’s working from home today, a spasm in his back sneaking up to hit him right in the middle of making coffee. The combination of drugs he’s taken to stop the spiral into debilitating pain means no driving, so he’s made a call and now, instead of resting like he’s supposed to be, he’s glaring at his computer.

“That’s not taking it easy,” he says, and it’s not, because the desk chair is not the place to spend any length of time when your muscles are as fucked as Alex’s are.

“This project’s taking too long as is,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face and visibly struggling to concentrate through a cloud of painkillers. “I’m rapidly running out of time.”

Michael sets down the miniature screwdriver he’s working with and tries not to glare. Picking a fight with Alex over the lengths he pushes himself to has never once ended well. “It’s not like they don’t know your circumstances,” he says, trying to sound reasonable.

“I was cleared for duty-“

“Limited duty,” Michael corrects. “You know you’ve got recourse if they’re giving you a hard time.”

He half expects Alex to deny it and is surprised when instead he says, “My COs a psychopath,” an edge of dryness to his voice that suggests its an understatement. “And there’s a lot riding on this.”

“I’d offer to help,” Michael says, already knowing what Alex’s answer will be. He’s relieved that he’s met with a tired smile and not outright hostility.

“Thanks. I got this. I just gotta-“ he sighs and leans back, reaching for the pen and paper he’s been absently doodling on between irritated key blasts.

Taking pity on him, Michael stands. “I’ll make us some more coffee,” he offers.

The cabin is small, too small for there to be any other route to the kitchen but the one that takes him right past Alex’s desk. He uses the chance to drop a kiss to his cheek as he passes, and has no intention at all of looking at the screen Alex is working on.

Instead, his eyes are drawn to the paper he’s doodling on.

Only, he’s not doodling. The symbol he’s scribbling is one Michael would know anywhere.

There’s no reason for Alex to know it, but it’s there, plain as day, circles of ink traced over and over again.

It’s not a human symbol, but an alien one. It's Michael's. And Max's. And Isobel's.

And now, apparently, something being investigated by one of the Air Force's top codebreakers.

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to add a note here: I don't do sad endings. I do angst, and I angst hard, but I'll never leave things broken. We're about to hit the serious hurt parts of this hurt/comfort fic and things are going to go to some pretty dark places but I promise I won't leave you hanging and I promise I'll fix what I break.

“Alex knows.” That's Michael’s opening statement and in hits with all the devastation that’s bubbling in his gut. He doesn’t have to elaborate. They have more secrets between them than they can count, but there’s only one right now that matters.

Isobel freezes and for a second, Michael fears a return of the terror he saw in her all those years ago. Instead, she looks angry. “You told him?” It’s not fear in her voice, but outrage. “How could you tell him?” What she means is _how could you tell him when I can’t tell Noah?_

“I didn’t tell him anything!” Michael shouts. They’re safe in Max’s home, secluded and private, and Michael lets himself relax his control enough to ease the pressure building up inside his chest.

Max has always locked his fear away behind anger, and it explodes out of him with frightening predictability. “Then how the hell does he know?”

“I don’t know! He was doodling your tattoo, Max, and I’m pretty sure he’s never seen you naked. He’s a fucking codebreaker, and he knows aliens are real! We have to tell him the truth!” Michael insists. He’s thought about it, thought about very little _but_ it, and it’s the only way forward. There’s no other route that doesn’t put one or all of them in danger.

“What truth, Michael?”

Michael throws his arms in the air in frustration. “I followed him, okay? I followed him to a secret fucking bunker in an abandoned satellite site and found him there with his father.” He felt like shit doing it. He felt even worse after seeing _that_.

It makes a sick, twisted kind of sense. He knew Manes was too accepting of them at the parade. He knew Alex was too used to his presence. They’re fucking working together. Alex is spending his days in a fucking bunker with the man who terrorized his childhood, and he’s coming home to Michael and pretending he’s okay.

Trembling, Isobel asks, “What does Master Sergeant Manes have to do with it?”

“I don’t know!” And it’s true, he doesn’t. “But if he involved, if he’s got Alex investigating alien tech then we need to do serious damage control before it blows up in all our faces!” He knows that fear is cracking through his own shell of hostility, but he looks at his brother with desperation. “Max, please.”

Max looks away, his jaw clenching and his hands in fists, the glaringly obvious signs of his rage joined by a dozen micro expressions Michael knows all too well. “Did Alex ever tell you what happened those six months he was away?”

_It’s classified, Guerin. I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to._

“Oh my god,” Isobel whimpers. She understands what Max is trying to say before Michael does.

“No!” Horror hits him in the chest, a hammer against bone. “It’s not like th-“

“ _Come on_ Michael!” Max bellows, frustration pouring off him in waves. “You’re not this fucking stupid, man!”

The power that explodes from Michael practically devastates the room. Glass photo frames shatter and books fly from their shelves. Max hits the wall with a crack Michael can feel in his heart, and even Isobel’s scream of his name isn’t enough to stop the trembling torrent of agony he is unable to contain.

“He’s not- it’s not - Alex isn’t, he isn’t-“ Fuck, he can’t even speak.

“He’s _using_ you, Michael,” Max says, his anger drained, leaving nothing but crushing pity behind. “He vanishes for six months, and within days of coming back, you guys are living together like the last decade never happened. _And_ he’s investigating alien tech? It’s not a coincidence, Michael. It _can’t_ be.”

“No.” That one word is harder to speak than any other that has come before it. It bursts from him in a hiss of air, a plea as much as a statement. “You don’t know Alex.”

It’s Isobel who says, “Do you?” an aching kindness in her voice making it clear she hates that she even has to ask.

Michael doesn’t hesitate. “Yes!” He does. He knows Alex in every way that counts.

“You’ve barely seen him since he left Roswell,” Max is talking like Michael is a wounded animal, like he’ll bolt at even the slightest thing. It’s accurate: Michael wants to run. He wants to run to Alex. “We know he was involved in some… classified operations while he was in active combat. He’s not the same kid you remember.”

“He’s not,” Michael agrees. “But _I’m_ the one who holds him when he wakes up screaming. _I’m_ the one he leans on when the pain is so bad he can barely crawl out of bed. If he knows what I am, if he’s using me, why the hell would he let himself be that vulnerable around me?”

“Maybe that’s why. You wanna protect him, so you overlook the dangers. I mean christ, look what happened to you the last time you got involved with him!”

“Fuck you, Max.” He’s caught between outrage that Max is throwing that back in his face, and the nauseating doubt that maybe… maybe he’s _right_. He’d do anything to protect Alex, he’s said so often enough. Maybe it - maybe that -

It can’t be a lie. He can read Alex like a book, read every tiny expression of wonder and love in his eyes. But. But Alex is lying to _someone_. Either his father, or Michael. One of them is falling for it. One of them believes him.

Alex hates his father. Hates him. He loves Michael. He-

“What’s he waiting for? If he knows about me, why hasn’t he done anything? Why aren’t we all in cells watching scientists put our organs into blenders?.” Isobel flinches, whimpers, and desperation overrides everything. “He doesn’t know about us. Me. But if we don’t tell him? If we don’t control the narrative-“

“And how’s he going to handle it, huh?” Max demands. “We don’t know what he knows. We don’t know how _much_ he knows. If he knows about Rosa, or-“ he bites down on the rest of his words and exhales through his nose. “If you just go in there waving the little green flag and he thinks we’re dangerous killers, how do you think he’ll react? You think he’ll be cool sharing a bed with you?”

Isobel says, “Noah would-“ and her bottom lip trembles.

“Noah doesn’t have the ability to make the three of us just disappear off the map. Alex does.”

“Alex would never hurt us,” Michael says firmly. “Never.”

Max tries to put a hand on Michael’s shoulder and doesn’t let Michael’s sidestep stop him from saying, “Either he knows what you are and he’s lying to you, or he doesn’t and he’s going to learn you’ve been lying to him.”

He can picture it all too easily. The hurt. The disgust. The fear. God, if Alex looks at him with fear in his eyes he might as well hand himself over for whatever nightmare the government has in store. No blade can ever cut him deeper.

“Maybe he could help us?” Isobel puts in softly. “He’s a codebreaker, right? He’s got access to technology we don’t, maybe he can help us get answers?”

“Sure,” Max sneers, “In return for a urine sample and a padded cell.”

“Why are you so convinced he’s going to hurt us? Why don’t you trust him?” What Michael means and can’t say is _why don’t you trust me?_

“Because he has the power to completely destroy our lives and right now you look like you’d let him!”

The fight leaves Michael in a rush. It’s true he’s willing to stare down a bullet if Alex is the one with his finger on the trigger, but can he really risk Max and Isobel? They come first, always. Before Michael. Before the things Michael wants for himself.

Do they come before Alex?

The fact that he has to ask that question says everything. He’s fucked, wholly and irredeemably so.

“Let me talk to him,” Michael begs. He needs that chance. Alex deserves it. “I’ll find out what he knows.”

“Tonight,” Max says firmly. Michael nods.

“And if he does know about us?” Isobel has started to chew on the edge of her thumbnail.

“Then we make sure he can’t do anything about it.” There are storm clouds in Max’s eyes and all Michael can do is stand in the middle of the melee and try to survive the onslaught with his soul still in one piece.

“I won’t let you hurt him.” He means to sound firm, resolute, but his voice wobbles dangerously.

This time, he doesn’t shake off Max’s hand. “We don’t have to hurt him. Isobel can get into his head.” She nods, pale but firm. “If he doesn’t know, we can make sure it stays that way. If he does, we can at least figure out what his endgame is.”

He doesn’t say anything more, but the look he shares with Isobel speaks volumes. If Alex has been using Michael, if he’s been lying this whole time, Isobel won’t just stop at nudging his attention in another direction.

She’ll tear his mind apart.

And Michael will have to choose.

 

* * *

 

 

Alex hangs his keys on the hook by the front door. Easy to find if he has to make a quick getaway, Michael thinks miserably.

“Guerin?” He doesn’t miss a beat, taking in the darkness of the cabin and the scent of tequila Michael’s been drinking for the past hour. “What happened?”

He doesn’t bother asking is Michael is okay: he can see clearly enough that he’s not.

The crutch is set against the arm of the couch and cushions shift as he sits at Michael’s side. When he wraps an arm around him, it’s impossible for Michael to resist. He turns and presses his face against the warmth of Alex’s shoulder, the familiarity of strong fingers burying themselves in his hair as close to the feeling off falling from a cliff as he can imagine.

“Talk to me,” Alex pleads, the usual warmth of his lips a sudden brand against Michael’s skin.

“I saw your father today,” he says, able to feel the exact moment Alex’s heart trips over itself.

“Did he hurt you?” Of course that’s the first thing Alex asks. Alex worries about him. Alex loves him. Please. _Please let Alex love him_.

“He didn’t see me,” Michael says, still wanting to reassure him, still unable to face the idea of Alex in pain. “I just - this is my dream, you know?” Alex says nothing. He’s silent and steady, strong hands a shelter, even within this little sanctuary they’ve built together. “When I was a kid, I used to dream my family’d come back for me, that I’d not be alone anymore. Then I met you, and I thought I could maybe belong here.” Alex’s breathing hitches, but he still doesn’t interrupt. “This, having this, having a home with you. It’s everything I ever wanted.”

Finally, Alex breaks. “Me too.” He’s not lying. He’s not. He can’t be. “What do you need? Tell me.”

He needs to not be who he is. _What_ he is. He needs to not be Michael Guerin, alien. But - but if that’s the reason Alex is here, the only reason…

“Tell me it’s real,” Michael begs him. “Lie to me if you have to.”

The sound that escapes Alex’s throat is soft and wounded. It’s the sound he makes when he’s crippled with muscles spasms and he can’t speak for the pain of it. It sets the tone for what follows. “It’s real, and I’d _never_ lie to you. I love you.”

There’s his answer. Three lies in one. Alex is _good_.

He thinks a broken heart is supposed to hurt more than this. He’s lived with the ache of loving Alex under his ribs for years; he’s used to pain. This is something different, a hurt too great and too consuming for his mind to comprehend.

He’s always known Alex will destroy him. He’s just never imagined how literal it’ll be.

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

What’s one more lie? Hell, what’s one more night? Tomorrow, Alex is going to go back to his father, back to whatever anti-alien government conspiracy scheme he’s involved with. Back to seeing Michael as something dangerous, something to be studied and dissected. Back to his _game_. He can give his report and say with cold, calculating certainty that Michael Guerin is still foolishly, mortally in love with him. Tomorrow, Michael might wake up strapped to a lab table, waiting to be cut open. Tomorrow, he might not wake up at all.

He doesn’t care. Tonight, he wants to pretend the lie is real.

 

 

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't say this enough, but thank you! Thank you so much for making this fandom such a creative and friendly place, and thank you so much for your continued support for this story!
> 
> Also, again, Fuck Jesse Manes. (Seriously, this one is pretty nasty. Not as nasty as the next one is going to be, but... might be a good time to find something fluffy to cuddle.) Thus continues the Emotional Whiplash of Michael Guerin.

Alex is long gone by the time Michael wakes the next morning. His side of the bed is cool to the touch and his uniform no longer hangs from the front door of the dresser, waiting to be worn.

Groaning, Michael checks the clock beside the bed and tries to remember just how much he drank last night. He has no memory of coming to bed. Did Alex carry him here? How the fuck did he manage that with the crutch?

There’s an old box of Tylenol and a bottle of water on the side table. A note in Alex’s neat, boxy handwriting sits beside it.

_‘I’ll see you at Isobel’s tonight. DRINK THE WATER. A x’_

It’s sweet, and he can picture the look on Alex’s face as he wrote it.

Tonight, Isobel is going to get into his head, and Michael is going to lose everything. No matter what, he’s never going get his perfect life back. No matter what happens tonight, everything will change. Either the house of cards falls down, or they fuck with Alex’s mind to keep it standing.

He can’t… he _can’t_ stay with Alex, be with him, love him, make love _to him_ , knowing that he’s let Izzy influence him somehow.

He needs coffee. Coffee, and maybe the bottle of acetone he’s got hidden in the woodpile on the porch. It’s not like it’ll matter if he’s sober. 

Throwing back the sheets, he refuses to let himself run his hand over Alex’s pillow and pretend he’s just out running errands in town. Not when he’s really at his secret government alien hunting base.

Not when he looked Michael in the eye and fucking lied to him.

Leaving the bedroom, he comes to an abrupt, startled halt.

Jesse Manes is sat at their kitchen table. On it, there's a Beretta M9 set beside a neat row of Alex’s pill bottles.

Michael’s gun is in his truck. Both of Alex’s are in a lock box under the bed. None of them are any fucking use to him right now.

“He's not here,” Michael says coldly, wishing he wasn't standing there in his boxers and one of Alex’s USAF hoodies.

“I'm not here to see Alex,” Manes sits in the chair Alex has breakfast in every morning, his back rigid. Every time he opens his mouth, Michael struggles to understand how someone with so much ice in his veins can have created a life as vibrant and warm as his son. The thought curdles in Michael’s gut. Alex _is_ cold. He has to be to do what he's doing. He's just better at hiding it.

Does that make him worse than his father? Manes has never hidden his hatred. He's never lied.

Christ, Michael wants to swallow a bullet for even thinking it.

But _Alex_ is the one who held him through the night. _Alex_ is the one who looked him in the fucking eye and told him he loved him.

“I'd offer to make you a drink but we're fresh outta cyanide.”

“I'll live,” Manes says, sounding far too much like Alex. He taps the lid of one of the pill bottles, nudging it until the label is lined up with the ones next to it. “If I'd known what you are all those years back, I'd have taken that hammer to your head, not your hand.” That's another thing he shares with Alex: zero punches fucking pulled. “I thought you just another sick little pervert like my son, but you're so much more than that, aren't you? You're not even human.” He slurs the word and the joke is on him because Michael isn't Max: he's never once thought humanity was something to aspire to. Humans are cruel. Goodness is the exception, not the rule.

Affecting dispassion, he crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. “Why the fuck are you here?”

Manes's eyes, his whole face, is the polar opposite of Alex. It makes it easier to look at him and hate. “They did a study a few years back. Statistically, one combat veteran commits suicide ever sixty-five minutes.” His fingers drum across the plastic cap of the painkillers Alex has prescribed. Add a bottle of whiskey and there's more than enough there to kill him. The underlying threat in Manes’s voice is crystal clear. “How _is_ Alex doing?”

“If you touch him, I'll kill you.” Michael doesn't care if Alex is working against him. He doesn’t even care if he wants Michael dead. He's stopped trying to pretend he's not willing to walk through fire, regardless of what awaits him on the other side.

Manes’s cold smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “That's really your call, Guerin. You and I? We're at war. Alex is going to have to pick a side.”

He runs those words back in his head. _Alex is going to have to pick a side_. Not Alex _has_ picked a side.

_Alex doesn't know…_

He's staring down a man who wants him dead. Who destroyed his life all those years ago, and who sits at the center of every shadow in Alex’s eyes. Fear should be the first thing in his mind, but instead, the only thing that he can focus on is sheer, overwhelming relief.

Alex doesn't know what he is. Alex isn't using him. He didn't lie. He-

God. He loves Michael. He actually _loves_ him.

The doorframe is all that holds him up as his knees threaten to buckle with the weight that is lifted from his heart.

That lightness lasts only a fraction of a moment before reality sinks in and he pairs those words with the reason Manes is sitting at his kitchen table.

“You can leave him out of this,” he says with a sudden burst of heightened desperation. “He doesn't have to be involved.”

Manes’s expression is ugly and cruel. “I'm not the one who dragged him into it. You did that the second you laid your filthy hands on him.”

“I love him!” He doesn't know why he's trying to fight a battle he's already lost, but in light of his renewed hope, it's impossible not to try.

“Spare me,” Manes scoffs. His eyes are mirrors, merely showing you the same silvery emptiness that’s on the surface. They're the eyes of a psychopath. “You don't know the meaning of the word.”

“What do you want from me? Why the fuck are you here?”

“Right now Alex is desperately trying to undo the last seventy years of his legacy. He thinks I've snapped. That you are some innocent victim I've targeted in my ongoing quest to fix his perversions. I'm the villain in his little scenario, and you're the damsel in distress. I want you to tell my son the truth. I want you to tell him _what you are_.” The mocking undertones of his voice reach into Michael’s gut and twist him up into a miserable tangle of guilt.

Alex is doing what he's always done. Alex is trying to keep him out of his ongoing war with his father. _That's_ why he won't tell Michael what he's doing. It's why he’s insisted Michael live here with him instead of alone in the middle of nowhere. Its why he won't tell Michael about those six months.

Fuck. What has he done? How could he think, even for a second, that Alex could...

He's going to be sick. 

Shaking with hatred that's aimed as much at himself as it is at Manes, he asks, “Why? If you think you know what I am, why the hell would I do that?”

“Because he needs to believe. He needs to understand,” Manes responds.

Michael laughs bitterly. “You think that'd turn him against me? You think knowing the truth would suddenly undo everything you ever did and make him loyal to you?” If anything, Alex might be more understanding. He knows what Manes is capable of. Surely he'd not hate Michael for his fear? For hiding.

Maybe Manes has given him the answer he's been looking for? Fuck, how’s that for karma?

Manes doesn't look worried. “I think you're going to tell him everything. How you've played a part in four murders. How you covered up the death of his best friend’s sister. How, barely hours after you fucked him under _my_ roof, you had the blood innocents on your hands. You're going to tell him all the things your kind are capable of. That your brother could've healed him after his injury but didn't, and your sister is planning on raping his mind and ripping apart his memories. You're going to tell him how you only seduced him to get close to his family, and that he only feels what he feels because you've made him feel it.”

“That's not true!” Michael shouts. But fuck, how does Manes know so much about them? How long has he known? He feels like a bug under a microscope, helplessly outmatched, waiting to be dissected.

Manes tilts his head to one side, mockingly curious. “Which part? You tell so many lies it impossible to pick them apart.”

And those are the best lies, aren’t they? There’s enough truth in there to make it real. There’s enough to break Alex entirely.

‘No,” Michael breathes. “No. I won’t.”

Manes looks like he’s expecting that answer. “Put the fear of God in him, and I'll make you a deal.”

Exploding, Michael takes a threatening step forward. He doesn’t care about the gun: he can stop bullets with his fucking brain. “The fuck can you possibly give me that'd be worth that?”

“My word,” Manes says, “that when I bring you in - and I am bringing you in, Guerin - I'll overlook the fact that Alex erased the files we have on Max and Isobel Evans this morning.”

The edges of Michael’s vision grow blurry.

He’s always been ready to make that sacrifice for his siblings. He’s always known it would come to this.

Before, he was scared, yes, but resigned. Stubborn. Better him than them. He can take it. He doesn’t matter. He has nothing to lose.

Only… only now he does. Now, he has Alex, and he doesn’t want to die.

_“I can’t-“_

“You can. And if you do, I'll let them live. You, I can make disappear without anyone asking any questions. You're trash, Guerin. No one will miss you. Your siblings? That's a harder sell, but I've done it, and I'll do it again. If you've got any sense, you'll make it worth my while not to bother.”

“Maybe I'll just kill you now,” Michael growls and lets his power vibrate around the room. It's supposed to be an intimidation, but Manes doesn't even flinch.

“Go ahead. I have three other sons. This doesn't end with me. Maybe you'll get to Alex in time today, but you won't be able to keep him safe forever.”

“You gotta make up your mind, man,” Michael says shakily. “One minute you're threatening to kill him, the next you're blackmailing me to get him on side.”

Manes’s smile isn’t kind. “My son might be a pathetic little pervert, but he has his uses, operationally speaking. I'd rather not waste that, but we both know how far I'm willing to go. If he stops being useful, I'll make sure he ends up as nothing more than a tragic statistic.”

There’s something more than that. Alex is more than just useful. If Manes wants a codebreaker, there are others he can use. No, Alex isn’t just a tool. Alex is a key, and he’s unlocked something. “That's why you're doing this now. He's found something, hasn't he? Something you can't understand. That's why you need him on your side. That's why you need him to hate me. Hate what I am.”

He knows he’s hit the nail on the head when the mocking smirk slips off Manes’s face. Holy fuck, what has Alex found?

“You're not going to be in a position to worry about that,” Manes says, pushing his chair back and standing. “Now, do we have an agreement?”

Do they? This is what he’s been afraid of, isn’t it? Having to choose. Max and Isobel, or Alex.

He can’t… he can’t live with either choice.

But then he’s not going to have to, is he? He wonders how long he’s got before he’s in a cage. He wonders how much it will hurt when they cut him open.

Less than this? More? It feels impossible that anything can hurt _more_ , and yet he’d thought that last night. Every time he thinks he’s reached his capacity for pain, the universe finds a new way to push the boundaries.

“What if I tell him about this? About you threatening us?” He’s not going to. He knows it, and Manes knows it. He won’t tell Alex for the same reason Alex hasn’t told him.

Better alive and hating Michael than dead. Anything is better than a world without Alex in it.

Manes picks up his gun and slowly attaches it to his belt. “Did he ever tell you what I did after we left you in the toolshed?”

Michael’s head is already spinning. Nausea is clawing its way up his throat, and something inside his chest is shattering. He doesn’t have the strength left to face that question. “What?”

“Your last misguided attempt to protect him. Did he tell you how badly it backfired on the both of you?”

No. That’s the simple answer. Isobel and three fucking murders stole the rest of that day from him. He has no idea what happened to Alex. He’s always been too terrified to ask.

This is the man who coldly made his son dig a fucking grave. Who, in a rage, shattered the bones in Michael’s hands. Whatever he did to Alex after… Michael won’t survive hearing it.

Manes takes his silence as an answer and smirks again. “No? Let's just say you made things worse, Guerin. You always make things worse. Don't fuck this up as well.”

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow this is both more and less dramatic than the first three versions I had written. 
> 
> Also, the guys who created the software Alex mentions really are called Kobayashi and Saeki, and that delights me! That said, I am neither a codebreaker or a cryptographer (or an astronomist for that matter) so please accept any scientific flaws as me not having the required academic toolkit to accurately locate an alien planet.

Alex digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. It feels like he hasn’t slept in a week, the stamina he once had for long, sleepless night seemingly having left him along with half his leg. It’s probably the meds, but it might just be that the life of an airman in active combat is, somehow, significantly simpler than his life right now.

Oh the flip side, he thinks he’s just discovered an alien planet.

Or, well, directions to one at least.

Weeks of trying and failing to decipher the alien language have been met with the most dramatic professional meltdown of his career. Multiple days have been lost to his self-pitying worry that colliding headfirst into the side of a moving vehicle has done more than just give him crippling headaches, and he’s simply not as good as he used to be.

Alex is methodical and he’s patient, and when the operation calls for a long, slow, delicate penetration of enemy intelligence, he’s in his element. He enjoys the puzzle, and he likes to take his time. That’s not what put him in the field, though, and the reason he’s so effective under fire is that his brute force digital attacks are relentless and devastating. He’s just as capable of bulldozing a digital wall as he is of picking the lock.

But, and he feels the need to shout this at his father every time the man expresses disapproval of his progress, just because he can code a computer system to run some of the most advanced algorithmic decipherments ever attempted, it doesn’t work like something out of Star Trek.

The closest comparison he can make is that trying to decipher the alien language is like trying to decipher the Voynich Manuscript: the problem always comes down to understanding the base language represented. If you know that, you can work backward. It’s how ancient languages written in Coptic hieroglyphs and Linear B scripts like Greek were finally translated. This isn’t just an untranslatable Linear A script like the Lindus. It literally has no human frame of reference.

People have been trying to decipher the Voynich Manuscripts for over a hundred years. That, at least, was written by a human. Most likely.

So forgive him for not magically doing what a dozen Project Shepard technicians have failed to do since 1947 and just pull an answer out of his ass in the space of a a few weeks.

His frustration with both the lack of progress and the lack of understanding for said lack of progress has led him to this.

This, his side project started purely to stop him losing his mind, might turn out to be the kind of discovery that changes history.

It’s not as exciting a prospect as it should be.

He’s not Alexander Fleming accidentally discovering penicillin.

He’s Alfred Nobel, and he’s accidentally created dynamite.

This would actually be a great time to be able to talk to Michael. Right now he has no one to check his equations with, and there’s every possibility he’s screwed something up. Breaking down the algebraic linear equation of a pattern is one thing. The symbol he’s found multiple references to in historical Project Shepard notes displays some of the key characteristics of an evolving pattern platform. It might be only part of a wider design, or it might be complete. Either way, running it through the Kobayashi Saeki system of pattern evolution software has spat out an algorithm and after a few days of misappropriating NASA databases, he’s got the stellar coordinates for a small planet in orbit around the star designated Antares.

Alex can now look up at the sky, find the constellation of Scorpius, and pinpoint the exact point of origin for an alien race.

In theory, at least.

Fuck.

Humanity can’t even treat each other with respect and compassion: there’s no way they’re ready to make nice with people for another planet.

On the one hand, it’s not like there’s a spaceship lying around for anyone to just jump in and go start shit. NASA is years, maybe even decades away from creating a vessel that can transport human life over six hundred light years.

On the other, if any human could find a way to do it out of sheer callous spite alone, it’s Jesse Manes.

He still has no idea what to do about his father. Or, more specifically, his father and Michael. He's running out of time. 

His phone buzzes. He’s got a missed call notification from his therapist’s office that he quickly deletes. No doubt his dad will get a report that Alex has been skipping his scheduled appointments, but it’s not like he'll care beyond it giving him an excuse to haul Alex over the coals.

This message is from Michael.

_Change of plan. Meet me at home. Need to talk to you._

Michael wants to talk? After the night they had last night?

Alex closes his laptop and shoves it in his bag.

He’ll come in early tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

   
Alex barely has a foot across the threshold before Michael is dragging him inside. His bag hits the ground, kicked carefully aside by one of Michael’s feet before Alex’s back hits the door and he’s being kissed so hard his head spins from the sudden shift in reality.

“Umph- Guerin!” He’s able to put his hands between their chests and give Michael a gentle little push back. “Not that I have any objections,” he says, trying to forestall any pout that might be growing on Michael’s face, “but what the-“

He finally gets a look inside the cabin.

There are candles everywhere. Dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe. Each one a flickering capsule of light in the warmth of this little space that’s theirs.

“What is this?” he asks, reaching an awed, trembling hand to cup Michael’s cheek.

“Third date,” Michael says shakily. He looks off kilter and on edge, but there’s a pleading hopefulness to his expression that makes it impossible for Alex to refuse him anything.

“Oh yeah?" Once again, he's struck dumb by just how much he loves this sweet, ridiculous man. "You know what I heard about third dates?”

Michael’s shoulders sag in relief. “No?” he plays along, a wobbly smile slowly forming.

Alex leans in conspiratorially. “That’s the one you have sex on.”

Michael barely touches him, his fingers floating a fraction of a second away as if he can’t bear to actually make contact. It’s so hesitant, so unsure, that Alex has to close the gap. He surges forward, lets Michael’s hand cradle his jaw, and sinks his fingers into curls that are even more wild and unruly than ever. It looks like Michael’s been dragging his hands through them all day, and Alex regrets, not for the first time, leaving him alone.

“It’s okay,” he says, reaching out to soothe the desperation in his expression with the gentlest touch of their lips. “I got you.”

He’ll reassure Michael of that for the rest of their lives if he has to. He knows the fault lines that have been carved in his psyche by years of neglect and abuse. He knows how to shelter the fragile parts of Michael in his hand, ready to support him while he’s whole and catch him if he breaks.

Michael still struggles to accept that. To hear the words Alex says and doesn’t say. It comes out in a broken, mournful moan, and before Alex can double down on his reassurance, he’s being pulled towards the bedroom.

It’s hard to keep up with the frantic, almost desperate pace Michael sets, but the moment he stumbles, strong arms are firm around his waist and he’s being carried more than he’s being dragged.

There are candles in the bedroom, too. More than the few they keep in case of a generator fail. Michael’s put so much thought and effort into creating the perfect night, and it’s something out of an overdone romance novel. The secluded cabin overflowing with flickering candles and the two lovers, free to lose themselves together. It’s every cheesy cliche he’s secretly longed for, and it’s real because of Michael.

The bed, their bed, is made up with fresh, clean sheets, something Alex enjoys but Michael takes unbridled pleasure in. It’s the small domestic luxuries he’s been deprived of as a child, and if Alex can give them to him now, he’ll do so fervently.

He’s barely hit the mattress before Michael’s hands are on him, tugging at buttons and pulling at his belt. He pauses, passion suddenly on pause as he moves down the bed to ease Alex out of his boots and remove the prosthetic, but the second they are both naked, he’s slotting himself between Alex’s thighs. They’ve always been passionate, always taken great care to learn each other’s bodies, to touch and to kiss and to cherish. This is an elevation Alex has never imagined possible. Michael’s mouth forms a litany of worship as he kisses his way up Alex’s thigh, a thoroughness to each touch as if he’s trying to commit every part of Alex to memory. When Alex reaches for him, his hands are pushed away. It’s not aggressive, but it’s a lot more forceful than Michael usually is.

Whatever he’s trying to do, whatever goal he has in mind, he seems to need it more than Alex does. It’s disconcerting, being pinned beneath the immeasurable weight of Michael’s eyes when they’re narrowed in determination, but there’s little Alex isn’t willing to do for him. If he needs this, Alex can give it to him.

The desperation doesn’t abate as he works his way up Alex’s body. If anything, by the time he finally returns to Alex’s mouth, he’s a tightly coiled spring of emotion. His hands fist the sheets on either side of Alex’s ribs and he pants, wild and heaving, his forehead pressed to Alex’s sternum.

Alex brings his hands back to his hair and strokes damp curls back from his face. “I’m here,” he says, because Michael is looking at him with the same look he wore when Alex had to be sedated in the hospital. “Whatever you need. I’m right here.”

He’s hard against Alex’s thigh, and Alex lost any hope of being able to control his arousal when Michael was nibbling at the sensitive skin at the junction of his thigh. As wound up as he is, Alex expects Michael to help ease him over on his stomach. It’s the easiest position for them both when passion and want run at their highest. They’re still figuring out the logistics and other ways of making love, but it’s early days. If Michael doesn’t climb into his lap and ride him, then Alex is sprawled over the mattress or the couch. He probably is capable of fucking Michael this way, but the idea of his leg giving out, or his muscles betraying him fills him with a nervous mortification and he’s yet to find his balls and try it. Michael never seems to care either way. He just wants to be close to Alex in every way possible.

Moving to roll over, Michael puts a hand on his shoulder and presses him back down. “No,” he shakes his head. “I gotta see you. Please, please let me-“

If Alex has one rule in the bedroom, it’s that Michael never has to plead for the things he wants. Oh, there’s teasing. There’s plenty of that. But Alex never wants Michael to look at him like he’s ashamed to be asking for what he wants.

He reaches above his head and snatches a pillow - Michael’s pillow, because yes, he loves him, but also yes, he knows exactly how much of a mess Michael makes with the lube - and arches his back high enough to slide it under his hips.

It’s a silent agreement and permission rolled into one, and the sound Michael makes is devastating in its honesty. The switch is flipped, and the slow, methodical time taken to kiss every inch of Alex’s body is traded for a frantic need to be inside him. He’s thorough with his fingers, but it burns more than usual when he finally sinks into Alex’s body. Alex doesn’t care, not when Michael is trembling with more than just the effort of waiting for Alex to adjust to him.

Last night really must’ve fucked him up.

Usually, by this point, Alex would be three states over and barely clinging to control. His body has always been sensitive to Michael’s touch and sex has always been a safe place for him to let go entirely.

This time, something tells him he needs to keep his head. Or try to, at least.

It’s a hard job made almost impossible when Michael tugs Alex’s thighs over his forearms, almost bending him double before setting the slowest, most deliberate pace possible. Now he’s where he wants to be, wrapped up entirely by Alex’s body, he’s back to taking his time.

When he kisses Alex again, he tastes like salt, like that strange mixture of sweat and tears, and Alex’s heart breaks. Whatever Michael is trying to hide from, whatever is forcing him to seek sanctuary in Alex’s arms, it’s something that’s shaken the core of him.

All Alex can do is run his hands over every part of him that he can reach, as if the skin to skin contact can somehow transfer love from one soul to another.

“I love you,” is what he says. Now that dam has broken, he wants to say it all the time, every second. It stayed locked away out of fear and shame because how can he say those words while lying to Michael the way he’s been lying?

Now, having seen how desperately Michael _needs_ to hear them, that excuse feels cowardly. So he says it again. And again. “I love you. I love you.”

Michael’s face is pressed against his neck, but Alex can still hear him choke, “Stop. _You can’t_.”

Alex tightens his arms around him. “Always. _Always_.”

Michael freezes. He pushes back, his knees nudging the back of Alex’s thighs, and stares down at him.

Alex feels like he’s run a marathon. Their rapid, heavy breathing echos in canon around the bedroom. He has no idea what Michael will do next. He’s not even sure Michael remembers how to move. They’re frozen in time, and all Alex wants is to stay in the moment.

“I love you.”

The Michael moves, sudden and sharp. He lets Alex’s thighs fall either side of his hips, and seizes his face in a bruising grip. Alex doesn’t get the chance to cry out at the sudden roughness; a ragged inhalation of much-needed air is cut off by the press of Michael’s mouth against his own. He parts his lips eagerly and lets Michael in, lets him take what he needs, and doesn’t even attempt to break free even when the world starts to blur at the edges.

That tenderness has vanished. Michael fucks him like he’s trying to fuse them together through sheer force of will, each powerful thrust of his hips stealing a desperate gasp from Alex’s lungs.

Michael still doesn’t let either of them up for air.

Alex has to be leaving his own bruises in Michael’s arms, but any pain is washed away in a torrent of pleasure. One hand moves from Alex’s cheek to fist in his hair and the other reaches down and wraps around his dick.

Alex can’t breathe. He doesn’t know if it’s because Michael’s still trying to devour his mouth, or if he’s just forgotten how, but he _can’t_. It takes Michael only minutes to convince him that he doesn’t need oxygen to live anymore.

The candles flicker and fade as the darkness spreads, that rising tidal wave of exquisite pleasure crashing against him with the kind of violence that only goes hand in hand with love or hate. He comes in Michael's hand, broken and shaking, and the darkness takes over.

 

* * *

 

  
Technically, Alex has been hit by a truck before. In his case, he hit the truck instead of the other way around, but the resulting pain has to be similar.

He knows better than to say he feels like he’s been hit by a truck. But fuck, it can’t be far from it.

He must’ve been out for a while. He’s dressed, for one. Clean and not sticky, and while his ass is definitely aware that it’s been the center of Michael’s attention, it’s his thighs that ache the most.

They’ve had a lot of sex in the last few weeks, but he can’t remember a single time he’s actually passed out. That’s not something that just _happens_. He might fall asleep within a minute or two, but he’s sure as hell never lost consciousness before Michael’s even come.

He can’t decide if he’s embarrassed, or really satisfied. Maybe a little of both.

From the state of the candles and the darkness beyond the closed shutters, it’s late. Too late to bother putting his leg back on. Wincing as he rolls off the bed, he grabs his crutches instead. Michael always makes sure they’re in easy reach. He’s better at it than Alex is.

“You wanna order food?” he calls. Michael’s not in the bedroom, but that’s not necessarily something to worry about. Michael is basically an Energizer Bunny. Even ridiculously athletic sex doesn’t always slow him down. Especially not when he’s upset. It’s fairly obvious he’s still working through whatever it was that messed him up the day before. Alex doesn’t begrudge him his secrets, god knows he has plenty of his own, but it hurts to be on the outside, watching him struggle.

“Or not,” he says, looking at the clock. There’s only one place in town that will deliver as far out as they are, and it closed twenty minutes ago. “I can make pasta.” He has no idea if his leg will support him that long, but he can try. “Guerin?”

He can see the illumination of a computer screen from the bedroom door. Michael doesn’t have a laptop, not that Alex is aware of. He’ll use Alex’s tablet sometimes, but the only laptop in the cabin is Alex’s work one.

Yelling at Michael for using an DoD issue laptop to surf the internet is not how he wants to spend the night.  
  
The laptop is the only source of light in the kitchen. Beyond, there’s still the flickering candles, but the faintly green screen casts a sickly sheen to Michael’s face. “A map. Huh. I never thought of that.”

Something tightens uncomfortably in Alex’s gut. “Guerin? What are you doing?” Michael knows better than this. He knows he’s not supposed to fuck with Alex’s work.

He doesn’t look up. “Plotting to overthrow the government,” he says.

Right. A joke. He’s being a dick. That’s the other side to whatever upset he’s working through. Significantly less fun than sex, but equally as valid. “Funny. That laptop belongs to the DoD. It's not for watching porn.”

He waits for Michael to smile and flash him that cocky smirk. He doesn’t. “Not watching porn. I'm reading your reports. How'd you figure it was a map?”

Alex freezes. “What?”

Michael looks up, and there’s nothing recognizable in his expression. He’s got the face of a stranger. “My symbol.”

No one warns you how cold it feels when you’re bleeding to death. How the numbness sets in slowly and saps every lingering trace of heat from your body as your blood runs free. There’s absolutely no reason for Alex to be feeling that way now, not when he’s here, in the safest place on the planet, and yet…

“Yo- your symbol?”

Michael’s expression is grim. “Mine. My family's. My people's. Or I'm guessing it is. Not a huge number of folk to ask when you're the only survivors of a UFO crash.”

Six months ago, it might’ve been a joke. A bad joke, but still a joke.

But this morning, Alex found a map to a planet whose inhabitants crash-landed on earth half a century ago. It’s the furthest thing from funny. “UFO- Guerin, what the hell are you talking about?”

The only voice in Alex’s head right now is his father’s. ‘ _They’re not human. Michael isn’t human.’_

Then Michael follows with the words that tear away any hope Alex has of stopping that seeping, blood-loss-coldness. “Project Shepard. Sounds kinda benign.”

No. No. Michael’s _not a fucking alien_. His father isn’t fucking right. He _can’t_ be right. Furious, Alex snaps, “Damnit, that's classified! You can't just go reading-“

Michael’s always met rage with rage, fire with fire. This? This is too cold. This isn’t Michael. This isn’t the man who kisses him like he’s the center of the universe. “Can't be classified when it's about me. Or, well, I guess it can. But I get an exemption or something.”

“This isn't funny.“ It’s a joke. Michael’s fucking with him. He’s fucking with him, and he’s sleeping on the fucking porch for the next month, and-

“You always were naive as fuck, but you've never been stupid. Do you really need me to spell it out for you?” It's imaginably hard to hold his ground when Michael stands. There's something unnatural in his expression, a coldness that's settled on his face like an ill-fitting mask.

Michael isn’t cruel. He isn’t. It’s not him, it’s not him.

_‘They look just like us, they chose the forms most likely to pass unnoticed, but make no mistake, Alex. They aren’t human. Michael isn’t human. They know nothing of love and kindness. They can mimic it, but it’s not real. Whatever he says he feels for you is not real.’_

“No?” The chair slides back, a sudden scrape across the wooden floor that sounds like a gunshot. Alex flinches. “Okay then.” Michael cocks his head to one side, his eyes narrowing in thought.

Then, one by one, the items on the kitchen shelves throw themselves across the room.

He doesn’t touch them. No one touches them. But there’s no doubt in Alex’s mind that Michael is the one throwing them.

“You know,” he says, circling the table so he can stand face to face with Alex, who tries to move and can’t. “It’s been exhausting, lying for all these years. It was always gonna end this way.”

He reaches out to touch Alex’s cheek.

Alex tries to flinch back, but he’s frozen. He can’t move, and Micheal is… _why can’t he move?_

Michael turns away, his back to Alex, and picks up the laptop. “I’m sorry, Alex.”

The candles in the cabin all blow out as the front door opens with a bang.

Still frozen, Alex watches Michael leave and not look back.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to call this chapter: The one in which the last of Alex's fucks take a nosedive out the window.
> 
> Or, Kyle really should've picked a better day to try build bridges.

 Alex loses track of time. His therapist has been explicit in describing the kind of symptoms he might experience as a result of his PTSD. They talk through possible triggers and establish coping mechanisms and prep Alex with a whole arsenal of tools to fall back on.

This is new. He’s never checked out completely before.

But one minute he’s standing, rooted to the spot in the kitchen. It’s dark and he’s cold and Michael is walking out the front door.

The next, he’s on the couch, tucked under a blanket and with no memory at all of how he's gotten there.

Kyle Valenti is the last person he expects to see when he opens his eyes.

“There you are,” there's a softness to Kyle’s eyes that Alex remembers from a lifetime ago. Before childhood tumbled into adolescence and life took a distinct downturn. “How’re you feeling?”

“Wh-“ There's been more than a few times in his life where he's woken up feeling like someone’s used him as a punching bag. Usually, someone has. After his enlistment, rough, fuzzy headed mornings leaned more towards the result of poorly advised drinking sessions with his unit. After his injury, waking up feeling like shit is standard.

This feels like a combination of all three.

The sun is blaring bright through the cabin windows. The last thing Alex remembers is it being dark.

And Michael.

He shoves himself upright. “Where’s Michael?”

Kyle rocks back on his heels, giving Alex space while still reaching out to press fingers to the inside of his wrist. “Guerin? I have no idea. You were alone when I found you.”

“Found me?” The nagging feeling that he needs to be somewhere, doing something, is a bubbling ball of anxiety in his gut. Frustrated, he tries to push them down as they rise and wonders why it feels like he's pressing his fingers into a bruise.

“Yeah. You were in a dissociative state on the kitchen floor.” He’s calm when he speaks, and that's not the usual response from someone who finds a guy checked out on the floor in the middle of a cabin that looks like it's been hit by a hurricane.

Why _does_ it look like that?

Why is Kyle so calm? He looks down at the fingers curled around his wrist. Oh. Right. It's _Dr. Valenti_ now.

Alex frowns and pulls his wrist from Kyle’s grasp, prepared to punch him in the throat if he doesn't let go. He does. He doesn't even attempt to hold Alex still.

“Have you disassociated before?” Kyle asks, resting his hands on his knees. “I checked your meds. PTSD, right?”

“Why are you here?” It's not the most polite thing to ask of a man who has clearly been trying to help him in some way - though who the hell knows why when Kyle's spent years hating him - but Alex is freaked out and hurting and he's been hardened in an environment where no one gives a damn if you're short with them.

Surprisingly, Kyle looks down at his hands. “I, er. I wanted to talk to you.” He looks embarrassed. And guilty. The part of Alex that misses the best friend of his youth wants to rejoice. The teenager in him wants to kick him in the nuts. 

And the adult doesn't have time for this shit. “You drove all the way out here to talk? Why not catch me in town? I know you've seen me around.”

“Yeah,” Kyle nods. “With Guerin. Who practically had the words ‘ _look at Alex and I'll break your kneecaps_ ’ stamped on his forehead. That's one seriously protective boyfriend you got there.” Alex tenses at the word. Not because Michael isn't his boyfriend, but because the last time Kyle made any kind of reference to his sexuality they both ended up bleeding. “Is that - I couldn't find your phone, but I can call the Sheriff’s station and get his number from Evans. You need me to call him?”

Alex’s first answer is yes. Yes, because he always needs Michael and gave up feeling ashamed of the fact somewhere between Germany and the US.

That yes feels hesitant, though, heavy in a way it shouldn’t.

“No,” he says instead, the headache that’s been wrapped around his brain for the past few days starting to throb in time with his pulse. He’s dehydrated and overdue his meds and there’s something small and panicked in his chest that’s threatening to break free of a cage that's been locked since the age of seventeen.

He’s not been the center of Kyle’s attention in years. Past experience makes him want to bristle and ache, still somehow clinging to the hurt anger that blossomed in the wake of a friendship turned sour. Alex turns it outwards: if IS can’t intimidate him, Kyle Valenti sure as hell doesn’t stand a chance.

“Did you do this?” Kyle looks into the kitchen, at the upended furniture and the contents of shelves that are strewn across the floor. “Or did Guerin?” Alex says nothing, too fixated on trying to focus the blurry image in his mind. Kyle, his brows drawing together in indignation, then demands, “Alex, did he hurt you?”

Alex very nearly _does_ start throwing furniture.

How dare Kyle look at him like that? Like he’s weak, like he’s in need of coddling and protection. Where the fuck was he when Alex _did_ need him?

More than that, though, is the absolute bullshit that he can accuse Michael of hurting him. He doesn’t know Michael. He doesn’t know Alex anymore, and maybe he never did.

Michael is incapable of hurting him. Michael is the one person in the whole world who has ever put himself between Alex and danger. Michael is-

The pixelated image in his mind finally loads.

Michael is a fucking alien.

Alex shoves himself off the couch and grabs for the crutches set by the coffee table.

“Whoah!” Kyle grabs his arm.

Alex moves without even thinking, years beyond the point of tolerating unwanted touch, lowering his center of gravity and planting Kyle firmly on his ass with a thud that reverberates around the cabin.

It takes him a second to catch up to the fact that, best friend turned childhood bully aside, throwing someone halfway across the room when they’re only trying to help is a seriously disproportionate response.

“I’m sorry,” he says gruffly, equally as furious with himself as he is with Kyle. Out of both of them, Alex shouldn’t have to be the one making the first apology.

Kyle raises his hands, still on his ass. “No,” he sounds winded, “no, my bad. No grabbing the combat vet with PTSD. That was actually kinda awesome, dude.”

Any guilt is thrown out of the window. Alex rolls his eyes in disgust and continues towards the bedroom. He can’t understand why the kitchen is out of focus, or why his leg is trembling with every step.

He has no idea why his lungs don’t seem to be inflating. Not until Kyle speaks again, carefully maintaining a distance between them. “Hey, you need to breathe, Alex. You're going to have a panic attack if you don't slow down.”

“I don't have time for a panic attack,” Alex snaps. His palms feel bruised from the crutches and arms tremble with the strain of overuse as he heads to the bedroom, but those months of PT haven't been for nothing, and he knows how to push through the weakness and pain.

“That's not really how it works,” Kyle says mildly, following him into the kitchen.

“Look,” Alex says coldly, pausing to look over his shoulder, “if you came out here to talk then I'm sorry but there's nothing I have to say and even less that I want to hear right now. You've ticked the Hippocratic Oath box; I'm fine. So, you can leave now.”

“Yeah, not happening.”

Carefully maneuvering around the disaster struck kitchen, Alex feels a vein in his forehead start to throb. “Did you not hear anything I just said?”

Kyle shrugs, every bit the pain in the ass dick he was in high school. “Heard it. Don't care. What're you gonna do, poke me with your crutches?” He picks up the kitchen table and starts to straighten the chairs around it.

“I have two guns,” Alex says flatly. “And I was a good shot even before I enlisted.” He’s finally able to limp to the bedroom and falls painfully onto the end of the bed. His prosthetic is right where he left it, within easy reach, and he’s less careful than usual when rolling a clean stocking over his knee and fastening the straps.

He doesn’t even care that Kyle can see him. He’s been stared at, poked, prodded and worked by a dozen different physios and doctors over the past six months. So long as Kyle doesn’t try to touch him, Alex can ignore his presence.

Michael is the only one he’s willing to let touch him.

Which maybe goes a long way in explaining when Alex wants to stand under the shower and turn the heat up until it melts the skin off his bones.

In the field, rage is the enemy. That’s what they’re taught. Emotions cloud judgment. Better to switch them off entirely. Better to focus on getting the job done first before carefully selecting what ones he’s willing to deal with.

Alex is very good at switching off. He’s a pro at locking parts of himself away. He’s had to be.

Right now, the ability is out of reach. He’s angry. He’s _so_ fucking angry.

Mostly at Michael and the absolute fucking bullshit that was last night. Stealing Alex’s laptop, trashing their kitchen, using sex as a distraction - and fuck him especially for that because _that’s_ why Alex’s skin is crawling, it is, it’s not because he’s a fucking alien.

He’s absolutely angry about that as well, and he thinks that fair. Even if it isn’t, it’s not like there are many other people in the world with similar experiences with which to judge.

So yes, fuck Michael for being an alien. Fuck him for lying their entire lives.

Most of all, fuck him for lying last night.

Testing his weight on his leg, Alex then storms to the dresser and drags out a fresh set of clothes. He’s not doing this in flannel pajamas. Fuck Michael for that, too. For having the gall to fuck Alex stupid as a distraction and then make sure he’s clean and warm and comfortable before lying through his fucking teeth.

Michael’s an alien. He’s an alien, and Alex’s father was right, and if that doesn’t drive him crazy, nothing will.

“You really should take it easy-“

Alex drags a sweater over his head. “I swear to god, Valenti. Bullet. Face. No jury would convict me.”

“You know, most people threaten to murder their doctors during disassociations, not after them.”

“Not my doctor.” Where the hell is his belt?

“Maybe not, but I’m serious. You’ve just gone through something traumatic. Your emotions are going haywire, and that’s normal, but you need to dial it down a notch before you hurt yourself.”

Jeans on, Alex drags his boots out from under the bed. “Everyone processes trauma differently, right?” Alex asks, trying and failing to put his boot on before forcing himself to take a second and breathe. Kyle might be right, and he might need to recenter himself, but he’ll be damned before admitting it.

“Right,” Kyle leans in the doorway, trying to look harmless and non-threatening and take up less space than his broad shoulders actually do. Alex has put Carlos on his ass before: he’ll have no problem going through Valenti if he has to.

“Great. I’m going to process mine by running over my father with my Jeep.”

It’s clear that’s the last thing Kyle is expecting him to say.

It’s not a lie, though.

It’s the root of the biggest ‘fuck you, Michael’ that’s tearing around his heart.

Michael might know better than anyone else outside Alex’s family just what Jesse Manes is capable of when it comes to physical violence, but he has no fucking clue the kind of mind games the man can concoct.

He takes the truth and twists it, and he’s followed the same MO Alex’s entire life.

Alex starts noticing Kyle in a way a friend maybe shouldn’t? His dad crafts it into proof of a perversion that has to be beaten out of him.

Michael is an alien from another planet? His dad makes him into a monster that Alex has to be afraid of.

In some ways, it’s a relief. Alex isn’t the reason Jesse Manes is a psychopath. For once, something isn’t his fault.

But mostly? Mostly he’s fucking furious.

Jesse Manes might be a master manipulator and an exquisitely skilled liar, but Michael? Michael sucks at it.

Now the shock has worn off, Alex doesn’t need to put a moment of thought into untangling the web of lies that have been spun around them. Michael loves him. When it comes down to it, of the three of them, his father is the one who has proven himself incapable of feeling love. Whatever the truth, whatever secrets Michael is hiding, last night has Master Sargent Manes’s fingerprints all over it.

Michael is supposed to be smarter than Alex.

“Not sure murder is the best way to process your trauma,” Kyle says, keeping a mild and level voice.

Alex begs to differ.

Michael’s doing exactly what Alex did all those years ago when he enlisted. He’s making the sacrificial play to save the people he loves.

Only Alex isn’t an alien, and the US Air Force doesn’t want him dead.

He’s walked away from the one person with any hope of keeping him safe and he's taken Alex’s research with him. The target that’s painted on his back now might as well have a note attached saying ‘shoot me’.

He’s running scared, and he’s alone, and Alex doesn’t need to have years of combat experience to know what happens next.

You want to take out a target? You isolate them.

And then you move in for the kill.

He knows exactly what his father has tried to do. He can even take a guess at the words used to convince Michael to play along. They’re probably the same ones whispered in Alex’s ear the day he signed his life away.

Reaching back under the bed, Alex pulls out the lockbox that holds his service weapons and ignores the wide-eyed look on Kyle’s face as he slides one into the holster over his sweater.

There are two ways this is going to go:

Either he finds Michael alive, wrings his neck, and then they deal with his father together, or he doesn’t find Michael at all. That road leads only one place.

Either way, Jesse Manes won’t be walking away from it.

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely adore that BAMF Alex has been the most responded to chapter yet :D We Know What We Like!
> 
> Now's a good chapter to catch your breath. When I said things get dark, I mean really dark.

Alex takes an inhuman amount of pleasure in shooting out one of the tires on Kyles SUV.

“Dude!” Kyle’s smart enough not to get too close to Alex while he has a loaded gun in his hand, but his indignant shout echos from the porch.

Alex jams his keys into the lock of his Jeep. “You got a spare?”

“Yeah, but-“

Alex shoots out a second tire.

“Oh my god!” 

“Sorry,” he says, not feeling very sorry at all, “but I can’t have you following me right now. It’s not safe for you.” For all that he’s still got some complicated feelings for Kyle, he really can’t bring him into this. It’s dangerous for Kyle, and it’s dangerous for Michael, and Alex really doesn’t have the capacity to explain the situation to someone else when he can barely keep up himself.

“Damnit, Alex!”

“Call Triple-A,” Alex says, climbing behind the wheel and gunning the engine. “Send me the bill.”

He doesn’t hang around to hear Kyle’s response.

It’s eleven am. That gives Michael a twelve-hour head start. Alex’s gut tells him not to bother checking his airstream. Michael’s not about to sit around waiting to be found. He’s MIA. Either he’s in the wind, or he’s been taken captive. He’s not dead.

 _He’s not dead._ Anything else, Alex can work with. He’s run rescue missions before with far less on the line. He just needs to gather the mission parameters and put together an ops plan.

He’s never had to do it alone, that much is true. He has a team, and they all have their area of expertise. Alex is coms and tech. Carlos is demolition. Blackburn is their sniper. Greengrass was their transport guy. The Colonel handles tactical ops. They work together.

Four years. Alex has spent four years with them. He’s picked up some transferable skills. Michael needs him, and that's enough to rule failure out as a possibility.

It takes him almost an hour to drive to Max Evan’s house, and it’s a relief to see Isobel’s car parked out front. Good. He doesn’t have to have this conversation twice.

“Michael’s in trouble,” he says, forgoing a greeting to get right to the point. Max has been raised to be the polite boy-scout type; he steps aside and lets Alex through the door without even thinking about it, then stares as Alex makes his way to the kitchen. Isobel is making a smoothie. She smiles for a moment, before rapidly paling. “Is he here?”

“No,” Max says. “I thought he was with you. What’s wrong? What happened?” Alex doesn’t miss the way Max moves to stand between Isobel and himself. Good. That's good.

Taking a deep breath, he says, “I don’t have time to debate with you on this, so I am going to tell you what I know and you won’t interrupt. You can ask questions when I’m done.”

Max is a Deputy. He’s used to being around authority, and he responds to it instinctively. Isobel, on the other hand, bristles. “If something’s wrong with Michael-“

Alex doesn’t glare at her. He doesn’t need to. He’s never had to rely on aggression to hold someone’s attention. He stares her down, and within seconds, she trails off.

“Before I start,” he says, making sure to meet them both in the eye before continuing, “I know what you are. I know what Michael is.”

“We know,” Max says coldly. “Michael told us a few days ago. He said he talked to you. That you were cool.” There’s something in his expression that suggests to Alex that he’s only been spared an Evans sibling intimidation session by a few hours. That’s fair. He’d be wary of an outsider suddenly knowing their secret. Hell, that’s why he took out Kyle’s SUV.

“When did he tell you that?” He asks, trying to establish a timeline.

Last night, Michael left.

The night before, Alex found him sitting in the dark on the couch. He said he’d seen Alex’s father that day.

“Yesterday,” Max says. “He called, and this morning-“

Alex looks at him sharply. “You’ve seen him today?”

“He came over before breakfast,” Isobel says, looking stricken. “Not that he ate anything.”

“Did he say anything? Did he-“

“He left-“ she starts to answer but is cut off by Max.

“No offense, Alex,” he says, “but if Michael’s avoiding you, maybe we should be having a different conversation.” The threat is clear in his voice.

It doesn’t help any of them.

“Michael is avoiding me,” Alex says, forcing patience through a clenched jaw, “because last night he threw the contents of our kitchen around with his mind, told me he was only with me to get access to my work, then left me comatose on the floor for ten hours.”

Under any other circumstances, the identical looks of bewilderment on the twins' faces might be funny.

Isobel, unsurprisingly, is the first to hit the roof. She’s been painfully enthusiastic about Alex and Michael’s relationship, almost to the point where Alex is slightly terrified she’s been planning a wedding for them behind their backs. “He did _what_?”

Nothing in the room rattles, so either she has better control of her powers than Michael does, or they manifest differently.

Christ, he’s actually going to have to start a mental database of his boyfriend’s magical alien superpowers. Somehow he’s come back from war and turned into Lois Lane.

“Michael would never-“ Max actually looks like Alex has slapped him in the face. There’s something lost in his eyes that’s beyond his understanding. “He loves you, man. He’d never hurt you.”

“He wouldn’t,” Isobel says, the volume of her anger softening to something fearful. “Please, you have to believe us.”

They’re afraid of him, Alex realizes. They’re afraid of what he’ll do if he thinks Michael is capable of hurting him.

The list of things he will be taking up with his father just keeps getting longer and longer.

“I know,” he says, loosening the tight control on professional calmness just enough to attempt reassurance. “He loves me, and I love him. That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?” She asks.

Max, frowning, adds, “What work? You said he lied about getting close to you because of your work.”

If they’re afraid of him now, Alex thinks tiredly…

He keeps it as succinct as possible, but he tells them everything. Project Shepard and his part in it, his family’s part in it. The coverup. The work he’s been doing.

He tells them about his father, and the vendetta he has against them. Against Michael.

“Add that to the fact that he ran out with my laptop, which might be encrypted, but also has the co-ordinates to what I think is your home planet, and I am beyond worried and firmly into full-blown panic.”

His panic might not look like everyone else’s, but it’s no less restrictive. Alex knows he’s not going to be able to breathe again until he has Michael safely in his arms.

To their credit, they don’t interrupt. They wait for him to finish, their expressions on a downward progression into fear as he explains everything he knows.

The second he’s done, Max turns to Isobel. “Can you call him?” he asks.

Alex expects her to reach for her phone and doesn’t know why he’s surprised when she merely closes her eyes and presses fingers to the side of her head, as if suddenly battling a migraine.

“Michael’s telekinetic,” Max explains, seeing Alex’s puzzled look. “I can heal people and Izzy’s psychic.”

Alex stares at him. “Right.” Fucking psychic. “Can she find him? Can she talk to him?” Can she mentally convey the fact that Alex is going to kick his ass to another solar system and back again?

Max shakes his head, killing any excitement Alex might have at the ability to send a mental ‘fuck you, Michael,’ down the psychic telephone. “It’s like flashes. Iz and I have a connection, but when we’re in trouble, sometimes we can all feel it.”

“He’s-“ Isobel’s face screws up in discomfort. “Come on, Michael. Where are you?”

It’s fascinating, scientifically, and if not for the fact that Michael’s life is on the line, Alex thinks he can lose an entire week just asking all of the questions he has about them. “So she’s playing mental Marco Polo with him?” There needs to be some kind of alien superpower guidebook he can consult.

Max scowls, offended, but then cocks his head in thought and shrugs. “I guess so.”

Isobel whimpers, “I can’t, it’s like there’s a wall between us- I can’t find him.“ Her eyes open, pained and red and full of tears. When she touches her finger to the top of her lip, it comes away bloody.

“Isobel!” Max is at her side in a second, an arm around her. Alex has never seen Max Evans so tender and gentle before, but when he touches her cheek, the absolute devotion he has for her is evident.

And then his hand glows.

Does Michael have a glowing hand?

Alex might not be the most observant when he’s getting his dick sucked, but he thinks he’d notice a glowing hand. Did he have a glowing hand before Alex's father took a hammer to it? Did Alex steal that from him as well?

Isobel bats him away. “I’m not injured, Max, there’s nothing to heal. Let me try again.”

“No,” Max says. “It’s too dangerous.”

Alex feels the frown form on his face. “If Michael’s in danger-“

“Then it’s your fault!” Max shouts. “I’m not letting my sister get hurt to fix your fuckups.”

“How about to save her brother?” Alex fires back, knowing full well Michael would - has - pay any price to save his family. He understands Max’s protectiveness, but Isobel isn’t the one in danger right now. Michael needs that protection far more than she does.

The kitchen light explodes above their heads and it costs Alex every second of training not to dive instinctively for cover.

“Max!” Isobel shoves him firmly in the chest, squirming out of his grip before bracing her eyes against the counter and closing her eyes again.

She doesn’t touch the blood that trickles from her nose. Every part of her body is tightly coiled and trembling as she falls into a trance. Beside her, Max’s fists are clenched so tightly that his knuckles are white.

Time stands still as Isobel reaches across unseen space. Alex has never envied anyone anything as much as he envies her that ability. His whole being is screaming for Michael, enough to cross any distance, to penetrate any barrier, but all he can do is watch.

“Michael!”

For Alex - who has no idea what he’s witnessing and only a few hours to even start to comprehend the possibility of the impossible - it looks like she throws herself away from the counter, but the violence of it could be something more. Something psychic.

“Isobel?” This time she doesn’t shake Max off when he wraps his arm around her.

“Did you find him?” Alex asks desperately.

She shakes her head. “No. I can’t find him. I don't know where he is. But I saw him. Your father's there.” There’s so much raw fear in her eyes, but Alex refuses to look away. He forces himself to confront it. Max is right, this is because of him.

“Okay,” he says, feeling a distance grow between himself and the rest of the world. “Okay. We - we don’t know where Michael is.” _Breathe, Manes, you don’t have fucking time for this._ “But I know where to find my father.”

“What?” Max scoffs. “You gonna ask him nicely where he likes to dissect the aliens?” Isobel turns her face into his shoulder and sobs. “Somehow I don’t think he's going to be forthcoming.”

There’s a door in Alex’s mind and he knows if he walks through it, he can do what needs to be done.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever find his way back.

He doesn’t really care.

“That,” he says, taking the last breath he’ll ever take as the man that Michael loves, “really depends on how you ask.”

 

 

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Serious warnings on this part** for awful Project Shepard related experiments, major angst, and torture. There's no gore or violence, but there are some graphic scenes that are potentially triggering, including drugging via gas, forced nudity, and medical torture. 
> 
> You absolutely can skip this part and still follow the story, but I'm not shying away when it comes to how fucking terrible PS is.
> 
> Also, if anyone finds Michael's self-esteem anywhere, could you maybe return it? Boy makes terrible choices sometimes...

Michael sucks at goodbyes. He’s never managed one with Alex, despite years of bitter partings, and he’s never had to worry about saying one to Max and Isobel. He’s never acknowledged the end of his time with any foster family, and he doesn't really have any friends.

It’s evident in the shitty way he leaves Alex. He’s disappointed Alex couldn’t see past the surface to what Michael was really trying to say when they fell into bed, pissed at himself for expecting Alex to read his mind, _extra_ pissed at himself for leaving Alex in the middle of a breakdown, and beyond furious for expecting the actual psychics in his family to look at him and _know_.

So he runs from Alex. And he runs from Max and Isobel.

With them, he leaves everything. All his years of research, all he’s gathered of their ship, all he’s stolen from Alex. It’s all boxed up and safely tucked away under a picnic blanket in Isobel’s trunk. By the time she finds it, they’ll know what he’s done. Hopefully, they’ll be able to finish what he can’t.

There’s an element of irony in it all. He's hidden the secrets of their universe in Isobel’s trunk, and here he is in another.

If there's ever been any doubt that Jesse Manes is a fucking lunatic - and granted, there haven't been any he can think of - then it's culminated in Michael handcuffed in his fucking trunk like something out of a bad 50s noir.

He isn't going to put up a fight. Manes _knows_ he isn't going to put up a fight. They could be driving side by side in hate-filled silence, but the man’s gotta be a Grade A Fuck about it and keep with the mind games.

It doesn't matter that he's handcuffed in a trunk. He can get out of both the cuffs and the vehicle. He won't, because of Max and Isobel. Because of Alex. On the foolish, naive chance that by letting Manes do this, he's somehow going to save them from worse. That by sacrificing himself, somehow his life might have a purpose.

Isobel and Max will be okay. They'll take care of each other as always. They've never really needed him. The only person who ever has is Alex.

The long, uncomfortable drive has been more than enough time to boil and stew in his guilt.

He's saved Alex’s life. He's sure that the gutted, broken-hearted devastation on Alex’s face is enough indication that his feeble attempt at manipulation has worked. Alex flinched from him: Alex has never flinched from him.

So yeah, he thinks it's worked. He thinks he's done a good enough job to convince Jesse Manes that Alex is no threat to him.

He thinks he's maybe done _too_ good a job.

That's everyone in Alex’s life that's betrayed him now, and Michael’s landed himself at the top of the pile. What he's done goes beyond even Jesse Manes’s evil: what he's done is a complete violation.

He knows he's hurt Alex in a way that can't be quantified, and he's afraid that this will be what breaks him. Michael’s betrayal plays right into the lifelong mindfuck Manes has been playing with his son. By saving Alex’s life, he might well be damning him in the process.

It's... that's his worry. That this will be the final death knell of Alex’s faith and humanity. That Michael’s betrayal will be one too many to process without his heart hardening beyond repair.

That’s not something he thinks he can live with.

Not that he’s going to have to live with anything once they get to wherever they are going.

Worrying about Alex is the only distraction he has from acknowledging just how fucking terrified he is.

This is every nightmare from his childhood. Every invisible barrier holding him back when someone bigger and stronger laid their hands on him, ignorant to his ability to kill them with his brain: _it’ll be worse. If they know, it'll be so much worse_.

Trying to keep track of how long they have been driving isn’t easy. He’d guess a couple of hours, maybe more. The surface they are on is smooth now - Michael hasn’t slammed his head on the roof of the trunk in miles - so they’re either somewhere urban, or they’re about to arrive at a super secret base in the middle of nowhere.

The vehicle stops. Door number two it is.

_Fuck. Fuck. Breathe, Michael. Fucking breathe. They don’t get to see your fear._

He’s left in the trunk for what feels like hours, the minutes ticking by and his fear taking a surprising back seat to his annoyance at not fucking peeing before handing himself over to the psychopathic alien killer.

Then the trunk pops, hands are reaching inside to haul his cramped, uncooperative body out of the tight space, and a dark sack is being dragged over his head.

“Fucking overkill,” Michael complains, and forces whoever is holding his cuffed arms to have to drag him while he works on reminding his legs that they can still straighten.

Eventually, he gets them working again, and by the time they’ve taken an elevator all the way down to what might secretly be Hell, he’s alert, tense, and ready to resist.

Light comes with a stab of pain as the bag is dragged from his head, the handcuffs are unlocked and he’s given a brutal shove into an empty cell.

“What,” he asks, looking around and refusing to let them see how scared he is, “no hot tub?”

It’s not Jesse Manes who stares back at him. There are two soldiers, both wearing the same uniform Alex wears, and a man in a lab coat. Of course there’s an evil fucking scientist. What’s the sci-fi cliché without one?

“Your clothes, please,” the scientist says pleasantly.

“Sorry, doc, you’re not really my type.”

“Kindly undress,” he says again, not even looking Michael in the eye when he speaks. “Or these men will assist you in the process.”

It’s a competition as to who looks the least enthused by the idea. The two guards are heavily armed, but neither look thrilled by the idea of getting into a small room with the alien who can kill with his brain.

He can resist here. That unspoken promise not to fight doesn’t extend beyond this point. He’s handed himself in. That doesn’t mean he’s going to help them fucking murder him.

He’s going to end up buck naked one war or another. Fuck them if they think they can intimidate him like that.

“This is where you tell me that you guys are responsible for all the alien porn shit on xtube, isn’t it?” His belt buckle hits the floor with a clatter. “No? No comment? They remove your tongues when you signed up for the whole secret government project or just your sense of humor?”

“That too,” the scientist points once Michael kicks the last of his clothes to one side.

His hand immediately comes to his throat. “No,” he says, clutching the chain holding Alex’s dog tags. “No.” He’s standing in a cell surrounded by people who hate and fear him, he’s naked and unarmed. And yet, losing Alex’s chain will leave him more vulnerable than anything else they can possibly do to him. It’s stupid, bringing something so personal but it’s not like they don’t know what Alex means to him.

The man stares at him, as if he can’t comprehend that Michael is able of forming an attachment to anything so flawed and human as a chain around his neck.

This, he’ll fight for. This, they’ll have to pry from his cold, dead fingers. He’s here, isn’t he? He’s trapped. He’s standing fucking naked in a cell, lab rat and prisoner. They can’t take this from him as well. He needs to die with Alex’s name against his heart.

The doctor takes a step forward.

Michael throws him into the hallway with a violent psychic shove.

The cell door slams shut a second later, a slam of finality to ring in time to Michael’s frustrated shout.

The door is glass, solid under Michael’s palm as he slams up against it, the first clouds of sweetly scented smoke drifting up from the vents in the floor. It smells like cotton candy, cloying and sickly and even the smallest gasp of it makes his head spin wildly. He’s puked from using his powers too much, puked from too much acetone and booze, but he’s never been sick. He’s got no frame of reference for the way his lungs suddenly tighten and burn, or the weakness that creeps into him, a fog almost thick enough to slice through overwhelming every sense he has.

Even his palm against the glass isn’t enough to keep him upright, it just slows his decent as his knees fold in and he slides to the floor where the thick plumes of drugged gas are thickest.

The cell is designed for someone like him. Someone with powers. Someone they can’t subdue physically. They’ve planned for him, or else he’s not the first person they’ve imprisoned.

He can’t keep his eyes open. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever open them again.

He doesn’t want to die, but… but there are worse ways to go, right? He’s not strapped to an operating table. They aren’t cutting him open.

There’s nothing he can see beyond the white fumes that hang in the air. The glass traps it inside with him, opaque and endlessly far away when all he can see is white.

He tightens his fist around the chain, hoping that if he holds them firmly enough, Alex’s name might bruise itself into his skin. It’s not the kiss farewell he’d chose, but-

But he doesn’t want to die.

 

* * *

 

 

_“He’s coming round.”_

_“Damn, that’s what, seven minutes?”_

_“He’s stronger than the others.”_

Michael can barely open his eyes, still in a world of white. There are flashes of color now, lights scrolling above his head, and the blurry outline of a human face sliding in and out of focus. He rolls his head to one side, trying to find a context for the way the world is moving, and sees Alex’s chain hanging out of the white lab coat that swings beside him.

That’s his. Alex’s. He needs it, they can’t take it-

He tries to reach for it, his arm falling limp over the edge of the trolly he’s being wheeled on. He reaches with his mind instead. The chain sways but stays where it is.

“He’s a lot stronger.”

“Alex…“ The effort drains what little energy he has to cling to and he feels his eyes roll back.

The movement stops but the stillness does nothing to help him focus. He’s still floating in that white cloud, the world and everything in it hanging just out of reach. He can’t even find his fear, he only knows that it’s there, lurking in the brightness.

“Prep him.” Some asshole doctor. Doctor Asshole. He circles around to stand behind Michael's head as other bodies move into his blurry line of sight. One spreads something cold over his chest before there’s glint of metal in the corner of his vision, and this is it, this is -

He can’t even panic. Can’t even cry. He just lays there, immobile and detached.

But the blade that presses to his skin doesn’t slice into flesh. It drags across his chest, the path made smooth by whatever he’s been peeped with. They’re shaving him.

Right. Right. Clean surface required. They’re not cutting him open. They’re not-

Hands clamp down on his head, drawing his attention away from the bare, vulnerable expanse of his chest. Gloved fingers pry his teeth apart, a thumb pressed hard into either side of his jaw, denying him the chance to suddenly wrestle back control of his body and fucking bite.

The first slide of a tube down his throat makes him choke and gag, but he doesn’t even have the energy to thrash and struggle as it’s forced inside him. He remembers being there when they removed Alex’s intubation, how violent it had looked as he’d struggled with the tube. He wonders if it hurt like this hurts.

Where the ventilator they used on Alex is designed to support an injured body in breathing when incapable of doing so alone, this is something else entirely. The last of the tube drags bruisingly across his throat and then something thick and heavy and metal wedges behind his teeth. It closes over his mouth and nose, and for a terrifying tumble of seconds, Michael wildly tries to understand how his lungs can be rising and falling when he can’t draw in a single breath.

They’ve taken everything from him. He can’t move, he can barely think, and now they’ve stolen his ability to breathe. His whole life hangs in the cradle of wires and machines, needles sliding under his skin and electrodes stuck to his chest.

He tries reaching again for Alex’s chain and can only mutter a whimper they can’t hear when hands lift him off the trolly and suspend him, legs and arms spread wide, upright on a platform surrounded by monitors.

He’s trembling because it’s cold. It’s cold. Drugged and naked and surrounded by scientists who see him as little more than an experiment… that’s not - he’s not scared. He put himself here. He chose this.

He chose this, and he’s not afraid, but as the glass tube closes down over his head, sealing him inside and sinking into the platform with a clunking lock, he forgets all the reasons why he’s here.

It’s water that rises around him this time. Or something close. It’s thicker, clear and viscous, filling the tube rapidly. The breathing apparatus makes sense in a sick, grossly unethical way, but with the understanding that they’re not planning on letting him suffocate comes something that fills him with more terror than the thought of scalpels ever could.

They’re going to keep him here. Trapped like a bug in amber.

This isn’t a suicide mission. It’s not dying to save his family.

This is living. And it’s hell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If it helps any, Alex is back next chapter for a long overdue conversation with his father...)


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so insanely sorry I am so behind on responding to comments! I'll do better, I promise. 
> 
> Warnings for this part: discussion of child abuse, mention of torture, Alex's thick skull. 
> 
> Also, in an effort to distract myself from all the angst following last night's episode, I am sketching out some missing scenes from this story. If there are any you'd like to see, or any one-shots you think I should focus on, please let me know!

  
_“Dude, no. Seriously.”_ Alex rests one hand on the wheel of his Jeep and leans back against the headrest, his eyes closing. _“Get someone else to do it.”_

“Who?” Alex asks, a tired simplicity to his voice that he can’t disguise. “They’re civilians.”

“ _Right_.” He doesn’t have to be within a thousand miles of Blackburn to know exactly how disgusted he’s looking. _“So you’re the default option.”_

“That’s how it works,” Alex sighs. “Comes with the bars.”

_“That’s bullshit. You’re bullshit.”_

“I didn’t call you for a lecture, Todd,” Alex snaps.

 _“No, you called for validation. You want someone to tell you that you’re doing the right thing. You shoulda called the Colonel._ ” Blackburn’s never been shy when it comes to calling Alex on his bullshit. It’s usually welcome,  an unrepentantly blunt voice to pull him out of his head when the real world stops being real and life exists only in code. It’s really, really not welcome now.

“You know, I thought out of everyone, you’d have my back with this,” Alex says, unable to hide his hurt and disappointment.

Blackburn responds immediately, _“You want him dead? You go up to him in the street and pull the fucking trigger? I’ll lie for you in front of a judge. I’ll bust your dumb fucking ass outta jail and we can go on the run to Argentina. Fuck, Alex, I’ll rip his spine out myself if you ask me to. Fucker doesn’t deserve the oxygen in his lungs-“_

“Then why the fuck do you have a problem with me doing this?” Alex interrupts. He’s angry enough to slam the heel of his hand against the wheel, and he’s emotional enough that he’s glad Blackburn can’t see him.

 _“You’re too fucking smart to be this dumb, dickhead,”_ Blackburn says, the heat bubbling in his voice until he’s almost shouting. _“You’re our moral compass! How many times did you stop us crossing the line, huh? I weight every fucking choice I make on a scale of zero to_ Alex’d-be’disapointed-in-your-ass. _I have a problem with you doing this because, surprise fucking surprise, I know how much it’s gonna fuck you up.”_

“I can handle it,” Alex says quietly. Blackburn isn’t wrong. Alex has always been the voice of reason in their unit. They aren’t good men, not one of them. They’ve done things Alex will never forgive himself for, seen things you can’t see and maintain any faith in humanity. They’ve walked through a Hell that’s as much their own making as it is anyone else’s, and they’ve come out the other side still able to pretend to be people. Good men don’t do that. They can’t. But Alex tries, and he tries to protect their souls as much as he tries to guard their lives. “I can take it.”

_“If it was anyone else on the planet? Yeah. You could. It’d suck, but you could do it. But it’s not. It’s your dad. There’s no fucking line. No matter how hard you try, it’s gonna get personal, and when you look in the mirror, it’s not gonna be your face that looks back at you.”_

Todd’s right again there. He’s terrified he’s going to enjoy it. Like it. He’s terrified that secretly, he’s no better than his father and that this will strip away his ability to pretend otherwise.

“I don’t have a choice,” he says, his voice small. The best thing about his friendship with Blackburn is also the worst thing: they don’t ask questions where information isn’t offered. Alex calls him for a pep-talk before torturing his father for information? Blackburn doesn’t ask for context and he doesn’t care why. When he says he’ll kill Jesse Manes for Alex if asked, it’s not an empty sentiment. Hell, if Alex says the word, he’ll be on a plane and he’ll take the pliers to his dad’s fingers himself without a breath of hesitation. That kind of loyalty is heady, rare and dangerous. It’s not something to be abused.

He’s silent for a long time. Then, finally, _“Keep your distance. Keep your cool. And never lose focus on why you’re doing it.”_

Michael. He’s doing it for Michael.

“Thanks,” he says.

“ _Alex_?”

“Yeah?”

_“You’re not him. Don’t forget that.”_

 

* * *

 

  
Is his father going to pretend he doesn’t know what’s happened? Is he going to act like it’s just another day, pissed because Alex is so late for his duty shift that he’s almost early for the next one? Is he going to lie? Is he going to laugh?

Alex has no idea what is waiting for him in the bunker. He only knows that if he fucks this up, he’s dead and Michael’s destined for worse.

Leaning heavily on his crutch, he tries to find his focus. The pain he’s in is bearable, but only just. He’s a breath away from needing the drugs that leave him spaced out and sleepy, which means the pain is all he has to keep him sharp. It’s a fine line to balance, one he can’t see getting any easier in the next few hours.

Isobel thinks she’s going to be able to break into his father’s mind and pry the information from him. She says she’s out of practice, but for Michael…

Alex knows in his guts that it won’t be that simple. Jesse Manes has been preparing his whole life for war with their kind. He’s going to be ready. He’s going to be a tougher opponent than she’s expecting.

He’s there, waiting for Alex. Quiet and calm and calculating. It’s at complete odds with the last time Michael was between them. They’ve swapped places. The rage is Alex’s now. The fire and the hate is his. Michael needs him, and Alex is no longer more afraid of his father than he is of anything else. He’s no longer trapped in a body that can’t defend itself. He might be disabled now, but he still knows how to kill.

Alex is facing him now as an adult who has done terrible things, not a boy who has only ever been his victim.

“When did you know?” his father asks. No small talk then. That’s something.

“That Michael was an alien? Or that you were a lying piece of shit?”

He shakes his head. “Tell me where I lied to you, son.”

Oh, they don’t have enough hours in the fucking day. “You told me he’s incapable of love. You told me he used me to get to our family.”

“All of which is true.” He starts to advance on Alex, that tall, broad-shouldered intimidation a trick that might’ve worked ten years ago, but which falls short now. He’s not going to hurt Alex. Alex isn’t going to give him the chance.

Alex laughs and shakes his head, shifting his center of gravity lower and bracing himself against his crutch. “You broke three of my ribs when I was thirteen because you knew I was gay” he spits. “Long before Michael and I hooked up. He didn’t use me. He loves me. And the only person here who doesn’t understand what love is? Is you.”

He’s been watching his father’s every movement, every micro-expression, for decades. Survival comes from knowing when to duck, to run, to cower.

It happens in the span of a second.

His father shifts his heel back, bracing his weight to follow through on the punch he aims at Alex’s head.

This time, Alex doesn’t duck. He doesn’t flinch away in fear and pain. He moves forwards. He steps into the hit, knocking his father off balance.

He doesn’t have the leverage or the weight to throw the kind of hit that will take his dad down without actually killing him, so he does the next best thing.

Wrapping his fist in the front of his father’s uniform, Alex drags him forward and slams his forehead down with a crack that he feels all the way down his spine.

It hurts like fuck, and it does nothing to release the pressure hold his headache has on his brain. But Jesse Manes goes down limp, and that? That’s worth all the fucking pain in the world.

 

* * *

 

  
Waiting for him to wake up is an exercise in a different kind of torture. Alex sits opposite him, as calm and in control an image as he can possibly project. Max and Isobel need him to take charge of the situation. _He_ needs to take charge of the situation.

He needs to be the first thing his father sees when he opens his eyes. This isn’t a battle that’s going to be won on a physical front. This is going to be what it’s always been with his father: a mind fuck. Literally, in this case. Pain and violence are unavoidable at this point. It’s going to happen, no matter what Alex wants.

Alex doesn’t know what he wants. The angry, brutalized part of him that will always be a child under his father’s boot almost relishes the chance to even the odds. That’s the side of himself he’s afraid of.

His father stirs, waking with a silent wariness that underlines his training. It’s the same training Alex went through before going into SpecOps. It’s a training that familiarizes you with pain and helplessness and hopelessness. Alex sailed through it with the kind of ease that got his jacket flagged with a note from the shrinks: _this one’s already fucked in the head, do your worst._

Stoicism is something he’s learned at a young age, and he learned it from the man sitting before him.

“Alex.”

“Good morning,” Alex says, a polite, insipid smile on his face. “Isobel?”

Up to that point, Max and Isobel have been lurking in the shadows of the bunker, unnerved to be in the center of a space that’s been dedicated to hunting them down for years.

Isobel moves on cue, Max never far from her side. She moves to stand beside Alex, her hand resting on the back of his chair, support for both herself and for him in that one small gesture.

She’s doing whatever it is that she does. There’s no outward sign of her power, no indication that anything more than an intense staring contest is unfolding between her and his father. It’s disconcerting, especially when she lets out a gasp and leans heavily against Alex’s chair. It feels like there should be fireworks, or that the earth should tremble.

“Isobel!” Max grabs her arm to steady her.

“You think you’re the first psychic I’ve encountered?” Jesse Manes says coldly. He’s speaking to Isobel, but his gaze is only for Alex. “I always knew you were weak. Easily manipulated. What do you possibly think this is going to achieve?“ he makes an attempt to raise his arms, pulling at the zip ties holding them fastened to the chair. They aren’t pulled as tight as they can be. There’s not enough room to wriggle free them, but the small amount of movement it allows him makes it harder to break free from them through sheer force. The only other way to minimize that risk is to tighten them to the point they cut into flesh.

Alex has been bound like that before. He’s no desire to inflict that pain on anyone else, even his father.

Which doesn’t bode well for him actually managing to go through with his plans.

“Where is Michael?” Alex asks, focusing only on what matters.

His father laughs mockingly. “Are you going to torture me, Alex?”

“Where is Michael?”

Max makes an abortive move at Alex’s back. Any second now he’s going to snap, and Alex doesn’t trust his control.

“You really think you’ve got the spine for this?”

“You have no idea what I'm willing to do,” Alex says quietly. It's easy now, easier than expected, to lock away that parts of himself that wants to scream and hide and run. The man sat before him isn't the father he once ran to in the dark, and he's no longer the child who believes his dad will always love him. He's not the monster under the bed, and Alex isn't afraid. They're strangers sharing threads in the same tapestry. Nothing more. Alex owes him nothing.

No. No, that's wrong. He owes him a lot. He owes him this.

“What exactly are you going to do, Alex?” He’s never believed Alex is capable of doing what needs to be done. He's never believed in Alex, period. “I’m never going to talk. We both know it.”

Alex is beyond giving a shit. This isn't about proving himself. This is about Michael.

“I'm going to start breaking bones,” Alex says, perfectly matter of fact. “And when I run out, Max is going to heal you. And we're going to keep doing it until all that training of yours falls pathetically short of withstanding the pain you're in. Then Isobel is going to look into your mind and find what we need. See, that's the thing, dad: we don't need you to talk.”

There's no fear in Jesse Manes’s gaze.

That'll change soon enough. 


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this part: mentions of torture and child abuse.

It's not over quickly. 

He’s thought himself ready. He’s not ready at all.

“I know you hate me,” his dad says, a slurred slowness to his voice that grates down his spine like nails on a chalkboard. “Do you feel better now?” Even now, even pale and trembling with pain, that cold smirk still finds a way under Alex’s skin.

There’s no small sense of bitter irony as Alex sets the small ball-pein hammer down on the table beside him. It's at war with the near-violent urge he has to throw up.

Pain, in this kind of situation, has a unique smell, and it's dragging Alex to places he doesn't want to be.

“You think I'm doing this because I hate you?” Alex has to stay in control, he has to keep his calm.

“You tellin’ me you never fantasized about this? About getting payback?”

He’s a bloody mess, and there’s more than a few parallels in the wounds Alex has inflicted. His hands have been the easiest targets, but his knees are what are causing him the most pain. Alex has been careful not to put too much force into each blow, unwilling to risk bloodloss or accidental death. Max is here, and he says he can heal with his touch, but Alex has no idea what limitations that comes with.

“The only fantasies I’ve ever had about you, dad, are ones in which you didn’t beat the shit out of me just because you could,” Alex says, hiding just how much that truth hurts behind a wall of ice. “Where you didn’t chase mom away, and you didn’t indoctrinate my brothers into your bullshit ideologies.”

He _has_ thought about it, about hurting his dad the way Michael has been hurt, the way he's been hurt, but those thoughts always circle back to where he is now. To hazy, half forgotten memories of a time when Jesse Manes might’ve loved his son the way Alex still desperately wants him to.

He’s just beaten bloody the man who has terrorized him for as long as he can remember, who has ruined his life and countless others, and still, all he wants is to go back to a time Before and to change the parts of himself that’ve led them here.

He really is pathetic.

His dad knows it, he always has. “You’re lying, son. You’re enjoying this. It’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with hate. It keeps us alive. Keeps us strong. Keeps us fighting.”

“I don’t fight because I hate what’s in front of me, dad,” Alex chokes, one war in his mind blurring into another, the taste of blood in his mouth and so many screams in his ears. “I fight because I love what I’m trying to protect. You’ll never understand that.”

“He’s not worth it,” his dad spits at him, bloody bile gleaming on his chin.

Alex picks the hammer back up again. “He’s worth everything.”

 

* * *

 

 

  
“Alex?” Isobel reaches out to touch his shoulder, then hesitates. Her bottom lip is red and swollen, worried by her teeth in a nervous tell she's unable to hide. “Are you okay?”

Alex looks up, frowning. It's a stupid question to ask, and Isobel is anything but.

Is he okay? His uniform sleeves are rolled up past his elbows and there's blood encrusted in his nails. He's not shaking. He's not scared or upset anymore. He's not much of anything at all.

“Are you?” It's one thing sitting across from a monster and something else entirely to go rooting about in the brains of a man near delirious with pain.

“I need to take a million showers,” she sniffs, her wide green eyes bright but dry. “And I don't know if I want to strangle Michael or never let him out of my sight again.”

Alex makes a small huff of agreement. “I hear that.” It’s one thing to know, objectively, what Michael has done. It’s something else to understand why. Michael puts no value on his own life. For all his wild passion and hot headed temper, he has a scientist’s brain. He considers himself the lowest denominator. The logical sacrifice. If it doesn’t get him killed, it’s almost certainly going to send Alex to his grave.

“We’ll get him back,” she says, her voice firm. Isobel has the fire of stars in her bones, and she loves her brothers more than Michael knows. “I just… that can’t have been easy. I’m sorry. That I couldn’t spare you that.” The guilt in her eyes is breathtaking and nauseating. 

“This is happening because of my family,” Alex says. “Never apologize to me, Isobel. I don’t think I could-“ he turns away from her and the chaos in her eyes. He has to fix this. He has to make it right. He can’t live with himself if he doesn't.

“Michael loves you,” Isobel says. “He’d never blame you.”

Alex knows that. He knows it, and more than anything, he needs to hear it.

But he doesn’t deserve to. Michael is the victim here. Max and Isobel are the victims. Alex works for the people who have hunted them their whole lives. His own father is the reason that Michael is in a lab right now.

It shouldn’t be on them to make him feel better and to appease his guilt.

He appreciates what she’s trying to do. It comes from a place of empathy and decency, all things she’s supposedly incapable of being.

What does it say about humanity when Isobel, who has just used her powers to rip the truth from his father’s mind, isn’t the monster in this situation?

 

* * *

 

 

“The facility is in Santa Fe,” Max says, using his phone to get directions. “It’s a three hour. If we leave now, we can miss the morning traffic.”

“You’re not coming with me, Max,” Alex says, gearing up for a fight.

Max stares at him, the words coming without comprehension. “Of course I’m coming with you.”

“No. Out of the question,” Alex shakes his head, still maintaining that quiet, manufactured calmness.

Max is taller and broader, and as a cop, he’s used to using his physique to intimidate would-be criminals into behaving. It’s likely his default mode when challenged, switching posture and body language to discourage violence.

Alex isn’t intimidated by that. He’s more aware of the damage Max can inflict with an entirely different weapon. He’s also used to putting himself between Blackburn and Carlos when they occasionally decide they want to kill each other. He stays calm. He maintains control.

“I’m not asking your permission, Manes,” Max says, something wild and wounded in his eyes. He’s scared for Michael, and he should be, but that’s the exact reason why he can’t come.

“Michael sacrificed himself to keep you and Isobel safe. I won't let you betray that by walking through the front door of a building designed to imprison and torture your kind.”

“He's my brother!” Max shouts brokenly.

“And he's my everything!” Alex loses control for a fraction of a second and the words echo around the bunker, damning in their volume. He takes a shaky breath and clenches his fists to keep from shaking. “I won't fail him. And I won't save him only to watch him lose the only people in the world he cares about.”

“Alex-” Isobel reaches out, her words trailing off at whatever she sees on his face.

That short burst of emotion has done irrevocable damage to Alex’s control and he doesn’t have the energy to wrangle all of his emotions back in line. He hurts, everywhere. He wants this to be over. He wants that safe space he’s only ever found in Michael’s arms. To get all that, he’s going to have to go back to war. “No. This isn't a debate. I have the clearance to walk in there with no questions asked. I can find him, and I can get him out.”

Max scoffs in disbelief. “And if you're discovered? What then? You got your own powers you forgot to mention?”

“Yeah,” Alex says shortly. “It's called an M11.”

Isobel tries again. “Alex, if they catch you-“

“If I'm not shot on sight? I'll be court-martialed. I'll probably never see the outside of a prison cell again. And that's a hell of a lot better than what will happen to either of you.”

“I can influence them,” Isobel says, “I can make them overlook us.”

“How many?” Alex asks. “How many people can you influence at once? Two. Ten? You’re not trained for this and one slip up? One mind you’re not able to control? That’s us dead. That’s Michael left there to rot.”

“I am trained,” Max says. “I’m a cop, I can-“

“You’re a Deputy,” Alex says, “not a soldier. And the second you see him, you’re going to light the whole place up with your powers.” Control is not something he credits Max with much of, not when faced what they're likely going to be faced with.

“He’s right, Max,” Isobel says, placing her hand on his arm.

The progression of misery on Max’s face is painful to witness, but Alex can’t allow himself to be moved. He knows how he’d feel being benched and it’s easy to pretend himself capable of accepting it when he knows better.

But maybe Max is smarter. Maybe Isobel has a sway over him that no one else ever can. “I need you to guard him,” Alex says, gesturing to his father, giving Max a focus for his frustration. "We’ll have to decide what to do with him when we’ve got Michael back.”

“He won’t be going anywhere,” Isobel says firmly, her shoulders straightening. Max, reluctantly, nods.

“Bring him back to us,” he begs Alex. “Whatever they’ve done to him, I can heal it. Just… just bring him back.”

Alex understands the trust they are placing in him. He understands the weight of it, and he nods.

He’s coming back with Michael, or he’s not coming back at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Grand Reunion of Alex and Michael is on the horizon :D


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY! Or, Alex is really not in a good mood right now. 
> 
> (And is going to need a super long nap once all this is done!)

Alex waits patiently in his Jeep as his credentials are run through the front gate’s security system. They don’t recognize him, but the moment he hands over his military ID, they start moving faster and stand a little taller. Alex channels every fiber of Jesse Manes’s cold disdain and waits. Master Sargent Manes might be Chief on this project, but Alex is an officer and given the small size of the facility, likely outranks most on site. Besides, the family name is worth something here, if nowhere else.

“Sorry, Sir,” the young Airman on the gate passes him back his ID and tries not to shrink under the weight of Alex’s expression. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“Who’s Officer of the Watch?” Alex asks, ignoring the kid’s obvious nerves.

“Staff Sargent Jones, Sir,” he replies. “He’ll meet you at the front desk.”

Alex nods and pulls into one of the parking spots by the front of the building. He takes his time climbing out of the Jeep, making more of an effort with his crutch than he usually would. It lets anyone watching form an unflattering opinion of his physical ability, and it gives him a precious few seconds to clock the kind of security he's up against.

Two armed guards on the gate. A camera over the from entrance. It’s the bare minimum. That's more worrying than reassuring. 

“Captain.” Staff Sargent Jones knocks out a salute that Alex returns with an incline of his head. He doesn’t have to salute when he’s on crutches and it gives him a giddy, almost spiteful amount of joy to be spared the need to pretend he respects these people.

“Staff Sargent,” he acknowledges, letting Jones hold the door for him.

“We weren’t expecting you, Sir. Master Sargent Manes usually briefs us on any visitors.” He’s not stupid enough to outright accuse Alex of anything, but there’s a note of suspicion in his voice.

Alex chooses to ignore it. “My father is overseeing a critical stage in the development of Operation Artemis.” Alex rarely likes to remind anyone of his family connection. He bristles internally when referred to as Jesse Manes’s son and he finds it the hight of unprofessionalism. Here, in a place that his dad rules like a gentrified warlord of old, it’s an unspoken ‘ _do not fucking question me_ ’. “I’m here to check on the processing of our new specimen.”

Just saying those words make him want to vomit, but they work as a green light for Jones, who relaxes under the familiar callousness he likely associates with a Manes. “He’s stubborn,” Jones says, leading Alex towards an elevator, then keying in an access code. The digital pad inside the elevator is more high tech than anything Alex has seen on site so far. After the code comes a biometric scan.

He really hopes there’s a stairwell.

“I’d be more concerned if he wasn’t,” Alex says, affecting disinterest.

Jones nods in agreement. “He’s a lot stronger than the others. Maybe it’s an age thing, I don’t know.”

Others.

Please. Please don’t let there be other aliens here.

“I understood there was only one test subject on site,” he says levelly. It’s a risk, but it passes unnoticed. “It doesn’t look like you have the manpower to handle more than that. They’re dangerous.”

“We’ve been operating a skeleton shift since ’15. When the Doc’s done running his preliminary tests we’ll transfer it to one of the main facilities,” Jones says. The elevator opens to a long, brightly lit corridor. It’s lined with empty cells, the glass doors vanishing seamlessly into the walls. Alex counts twenty unoccupied rooms and can’t decide if he’s relieved or horrified that there are no other prisoners. Was Michael locked in one of those rooms? Where is he now?

“We’re bumping up the schedule,” Alex says. “I’m not satisfied this facility is prepared to properly contain a hostile alien threat.”

It’s a purposeful jab at Jones and it has exactly the effect Alex desires.

He bristles. “We don’t need manpower. We’ve got one of the best security systems available. This whole place is designed to contain hostile biometrics. If the specimen does manage to escape containment, it won't be able to leave without setting off a chain reaction and leveling the whole site."

Well, that's fucking great. This was never going to be easy, but-

Jones opens the door at the end of the corridor and leads him into a bright, pristine laboratory.

There have been a few times in Alex’s life where time has come to a standstill. They’ve all been moments of phenomenal violence - shocking and brutal and bloody, broken by screams of pain. He’s held dying men in his arms. He’s taken lives. He’s bled and he’s broken and he’s seen others suffer the same.

Nothing compares to the frozen horror of seeing Michael suspended in an enormous glass tank raised on a platform in the middle of the room. It’s something out of a horror movie; a scientific specimen preserved in formaldehyde and stored in a jar on a shelf for study.

That’s Michael. That’s-

_Oh, god._

He appears, for the first time, like an alien. The thick liquid he’s suspended in distorts his features through the glass and the metal breathing apparatus he’s attached to lend him the look of a villain from a sci-fi horror.

They’ve trapped him in there, spread eagle, helpless and naked. A butterfly pinned to a board. A bug under a microscope. Something less than human, less than sentient.

Alex is going to kill them for this. All if them. They don’t - they aren’t -

Christ, he can't breathe.

Alex has been ashamed to be an American before. He's never been ashamed to be human. He's never had need to until today.

In the tank, Michael moves, and the world catches up to speed.

“He’s conscious,” Alex’s voice is breathy in horror. _Oh god. Michael._

Can he see Alex? Can he hear him? Does he know Alex is here to rescue him?

There’s one doctor sat in front of a monitor. He looks up at their arrival, his eyes narrowing suspiciously on Alex. “It has a metabolic rate quite unlike our own, Captain,” he says, standing from his station and circling around to approach them. “Keeping it sedated is a complicated process. We’ve lost more than one specimen to respiratory arrest over the years. It’s not an ideal basis for testing, but we make it work.”

“Why the- why the tank?”

How the hell is he going to get Michael out without getting caught?

Does he fucking care if they are caught at this point?

“They’re powers are unpredictable at best, catastrophic at worst,” the doctor says. “But we’ve managed to synthesize a polymer compound we’ve added to the liquid it’s stored in. Not only does it inhibit their abilities, but it works as a perfect superconductor for bio-feedback. We can run full diagnostics without ever having to expose ourselves to it.”

Michael isn’t the first alien they have done this to, that’s clear enough.

_Get him out! Get him out! Get him out! Get him-_

“Alex?” The sound of his name freezes what little part of him isn’t entirely absorbed by the terror he’s feeling for Michael. When he turns, he does so slowly, knowing full well who he is about to face.

“Flint,” he says, his expression natural as he meets his brother’s eyes, “it’s been a long time.”

Germany, actually. On a bender nearly six years ago, two days after returning from Afghanistan and a day before being loaded onto a C130 and flown to South Carolina. It hadn’t been the best family reunion Alex has ever had. Not the worst. But not the best.

Flint has changed little over the years. He, like Alex, looks far more like their mom than their dad. It’s a shame he doesn’t take after her much. Alex has always had a childish theory that their dad’s influence has been diluted every time he’s fathered a son. Alex, as the last of the bunch, has more of him mom in him than he will ever have of his dad. Flint is the other way around.

“What are you doing here?” he demands, looking at Alex, and then over at Michael.

“Dad sent me,” Alex says, playing it cool and ready knowing he’s only got a few heartbeats to spare.

He scopes the exits. There’s back the way they came. Into one long corridor and an elevator that’ll take precious time to override. And there’s another door leading off behind them. That one could lead anywhere.

He hates this. Hates going in anywhere blind. The Colonel’s voice is bitching in his ear, calling him every name under the sun for sacrificing good practice out of desperation to rescue his boyfriend.

“Dad sent you?” Flint can even copy their father’s facial expressions. “That’s funny,” he says, “because the last time I spoke to him, he told me you were fucking one of these creatures.” He points at Michael without looking at him. “That one, actually.”

So much for the peaceful option.

He uses the crutch as a distraction, knowing for a fact that Flint has seen far less active combat than Alex has, and hoping the same can be said for Jones. They’re both experienced and well trained, that’s true, but Alex has been shot at a whole lot more than his brother, and his reflexes prove it.

“Don’t,” he says, weapon trained on Flint before Jones can even reach for his sidearm. “Away from the counter, doc,” Alex says, not taking his eyes off the two biggest threats in the room, but equally unwilling to let the doctor hit a silent alarm.

“You going to shoot me, Alex?” Flint is smart enough to hold his hands up non threateningly, but it’s done in a way that says he’s humoring Alex more than anything. “You’ve not got the balls.”

Alex jerks his chin towards the doors. “Weapons down. Both of you. Slowly.”

Despite outranking him, Jones looks to Flint for direction. Flint nods. He’s never had any problem overpowering Alex in the past and probably thinks he can do so now. Alex doesn’t plan on giving him the chance.

When they have all placed their weapons on the floor, Alex walks them back into the corridor.

“Come on, Alex!” Flint laughs. “You’re not this guy.”

“Dad thought that,” Alex agrees. “Didn’t work out so well for him.”

There must be something in his voice - hate maybe, and if not hate, disgust - because the smirk drops right off his brother’s face.

“What did you do?” Flint demands.

Alex ignores him. “Open it,” he orders Jones. He’s backed all three of them to the first cell in the corridor, and waits.

Jones hesitates.

Alex fires a single shot.

It’s not aimed to hit anyone, but the bullet does pass close enough to them all to make them flinch. “Now.”

“Don’t do this, Alex,” Flint shouts as the cell door opens. The doctor practically scrambles inside, desperate to be out of the firing line. Jones is more reluctant, but he still follows. Only Flint remains. “If you do this, you’re dead. You _know_ you’re dead. Dad will kill you.” That's something of an understatement, Alex is sure. He knows exactly what his dad is going to do to him if he gets the chance.

“Not if I kill him first,” Alex says coldly. “I don’t want to hurt you, Flint, but I will. What you’re doing here is monstrous.”

“They’re the monsters!” Flint jabs his finger towards the lab. “If you knew what they’re capable of-“

“I _know_ what they’re capable of! I know what _we’re_ capable of. _They’re_ not the monsters.”

His brother says nothing, but the twisted, hateful expression on his face speaks louder than any words ever can. Alex spares a fractured, split atom second to grieve for whatever relationship he might one day have been able to salvage with his brother, then closes the cell door.

The interface isn’t a complicated one, so it’s ease to navigate the settings. Alex makes sure the lock is set before sprinting back to the lab. He’s got minutes, maybe less, before someone realizes something is wrong.

“Michael!” He races to the tank first, pressing his palm against it, hoping that Michael will know he’s there. “Michael! I’m gonna get you out.”

Circling to the terminal the doctor was working at before, Alex ignores the heartbreaking collection of data that’s being processed and searches for the tank overrides.

He finds them easily enough, but it takes an agonizingly long time for the tank to slowly drain. As soon as the glass rises, Alex is scrambling painfully up onto the platform, snapping the restraints first from Michael’s ankles, then carefully removing the needles and wires they have attached to him.

“Hey, hey, it's okay. It's okay. I’m here, I'm gonna get you out,” Alex says, keeping up a constant litany of reassurance as he removes tens pads and tries to figure out the locking mechanism on the breathing apparatus. When it snaps open with a hiss, he’s achingly careful as he eases it out from behind Michael’s tense jaw, but the tube attached is longer than expected, and Michael can’t stop himself from struggling and choking as it’s removed. “Easy, easy,” Alex soothes, finally letting the hateful machine fall with a clatter to the metal grate below their feet.

He slides one hand into Michael’s wet, sticky curls and holds him steady as he gags and coughs and spits bile at their feet. His eyes, wide and terrified while he chokes, fall into narrow, unfocused slits as his chest heaves and fresh air hits his lungs.

Alex puts a shoulder under Michael’s armpit and braces him as he unfastens his wrists. He’s not expecting Michael to be able to support his own weight and bites back a grunt of pain as he’s suddenly bracing his whole body.

Getting off the platform is awkward and leaves them both with bruises, but it’s worth it just to be able to lay Michael down and press their foreheads together.

“I got you,” Alex chokes, tears burning his eyes that can’t afford to be shed. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Michael doesn’t respond. There’s no recognition in his gaze and Alex has no way of knowing if that’s a result of the drugs or a symptom of his trauma.

“God,” he can’t stop the tears, no matter how hard he tries. It’s impossible. He’s holding Michael in his arms again, and that’s what he wants most in the world, but the cost is beyond his ability to pay. “What’ve they done to you?”

The skin beneath his hands is icy cold and smattered with bruises that stand out like smudges of coal against snow.

Carefully, Alex sets him down on the floor and scrambles to his feet. There’s a lab coat hanging over the back of one of the chairs, and he grabs it and tucks it around Michael like a blanket. It does little to provide him with any warmth, but it allows him a little dignity, and that’s all Alex can do for him right now.

The universe seems to know how desperate he is, because a moment later, the scream of an alarm splits the air.

“Fuck!”

Michael can’t walk out of here on his own. He can’t even stand. Alex doesn’t have the time to try and find a wheelchair or a trolly to wheel him on, and they can’t afford the immobility.

He doesn’t stop to consider the pain, or even the practicality. He grabs hold of Michael’s wrist and hauls him up off the floor, legs trembling as he awkwardly shoulders Michael’s weight and lifts him into a fireman’s cary.

The fastest escape route is back down the corridor. He starts towards it, only for the door to swing open and Flint to race into the lab, armed and firing.

The first shot misses them both. The second won’t. Alex turns in a way that sends fire racing up his leg, slams into the far door, and races out into the unknown.

 


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear it's like I'm trying to add every H/C trope possible into this damn fic...

The good news: Alex has found the stairs.

The bad news: he's about thirty seconds from his leg giving out and throwing the both of them down the twelve flights he's just hauled them up.

And Flint is almost in reaching distance, shots ringing out with uneven precision. Every time Alex reaches a new flight, he ends up dodging a bullet.

They might be in a secret government facility, but it _is_ a government facility so there, right at the very top of the stairs, is the glorious sight of a glowing fire exit sign.

Twelve more steps.

Flint has stopped shouting his name, saving his breath for the climb. Alex is scrapping the barrel, holding on through sheer adrenaline and desperation. Any minute now, he's going down and he's going down hard. If he does, he won't be getting back up again. And Michael-

Three steps. Two.

The fire door throws itself open, a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette blocking out the bright light beyond.

Alex’s heart sinks even as he prepares to bulldoze his way past. If he hesitates, let's this newcomer reach for them at just the right time, maybe he can use him to knock Flint off balance...

Michael lets out a grunt of pain: Flint has grabbed him, and the sudden jerk is enough to throw Alex completely off balance. His knee gives way and he collides with the cement stairs hard.

Above him, a crowbar swings through the air, right where his head was only seconds ago. It hits Flint in the chest hard enough to throw him down a whole flight of stairs.

A _crowbar_? Hardly standard issue kit…

Alex looks up, his vision red around the edges.

“ _Valenti_?”

Of all the people in the world, Kyle Valenti is the very last person he's expecting to see.

It’s a sentiment that seems to be shared. “Oh my god,” Kyle exclaims, looking at Alex, then Flint, then the crowbar in his hands as if he can't quite believe what he's just done. Then, snapping back to Alex, his eyes widen further. “Oh my god! Is that Guerin? What the _fuck_ , Alex?” He's clearly half a second from some kind of meltdown and the important questions like _how_ and _why_ and _what the fuck, Kyle_ , are shelved for later discussion.

“Help me!” Alex snaps him back to focus and breathes a sigh of relief as Kyle drops the crowbar lifts Michael from his shoulder. The presence of a casualty in his arms snaps Kyle out of his panic and in to a professional calmness.

With Kyle focused on Michael, Alex shoves hard against the nausea rolling in his gut and finds the last reserves of his energy. They can do this. _He_ can do this. Fuck, he _has_ to be able to do this.

“What-“

Flint is already climbing back to his feet. He's clutching his chest, winded and pained, but that's not stopping him.

“Move!” Alex shouts, shoving Kyle through the door and stumbling after.

They end up in another corridor, this one empty of cells, and Alex ends up bracing himself against the wall every few steps. Now he’s relinquished his precious burden to Kyle, who is strong and a hell of a lot more physically able than Alex is right now, that pounding knowledge of being the only thing standing between Michael and death has faded, taking with it the desperation that’s made it possible to resurrect his endurance from the dead.

Alex is beyond working through the pain. It’s no longer a case of mind over matter. His body is rapidly starting to refuse the orders he’s sending it.

Kyle has Michael. He’ll get him out. Alex can stop. He can stop, and maybe he can keep Flint occupied. Buy them some time.

It’s the easiest path. He can-

He can what? Leave Michael alone with someone he doesn’t really know and sure as fuck doesn’t trust? Leave him with a doctor who doesn’t know who or what he is after being at the mercy of other so-called medical professionals?

Michael is only here because of Alex. If Alex doesn’t make it out with him, it’ll destroy him.

Glass shatters besides Alex’s head as Flint stumbles out of the fire exit and fires. He misses only because Alex moves, not because of any problems with his aim.

Any hesitancy to hurt his brother goes out the window. Alex gives in to the agony shooting up his leg, hitting the floor with a bone-jarring thud and rolling.

He’s got one shot at this, so he moves as smoothly as he can manage, drawing his weapon as he goes down and firing on the rebound. He puts a bullet in Flint’s right shoulder and another in his calf and tells himself that he’s being kinder than his brother has ever been to him.

“Alex!” Kyle turns at the sound of Flint’s scream, a look of horror in his eyes that’s likely less about the blood than the cause of it.

“Why the fuck have you stopped?” Alex yells, hating that it takes him more than one try to get back on his feet.

“Go in front of me,” Kyle shouts. Alex wants to protest, wants to point out that he’s only going to slow them down, but since he’s also the only one who is armed, it actually makes sense. That doesn’t mean he can’t be pissed about it.

“Down,” Michael groans, starting to come round and struggle against Kyle’s grip.

“Shut up, Guerin, you’re supposed to be unconscious.” That’s one hundred percent Kyle, no trace of the surgeon in sight, and it almost makes Alex laugh.

Even more so when Michael asks, “Valenti?” and a slurred string of curses follow. It’s impressively creative for a man who’s damn near drugged to the eyeballs, and Alex snorts in amusement. “‘Lex?”

“I’m here,” Alex assures him, frantically working the control panel on the door. It takes less than thirty seconds, but they are seconds they can’t afford to spare, and it seems like the alarm screaming at them is getting louder.

“Why?” Michael moans. He sounds even less happy to hear Alex than he does to hear Kyle.

There are a hundred reasons why. Only one matters. “Because I love you,” he says honestly.

Kyle, like the fucking asshole he is, says, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“No one asked you to be here,” Alex snaps, shoving them through the door the second it slides open.

Oh goodie. More fucking stairs.

“Trust me,” Kyle grunts and hoists a slipping Michael more securely onto his shoulder, “no one is regretting their life choices more than I am right now - Guerin I will drop you on your head I swear to god!”

Michael seems to be coming round rapidly - the doctor did say he was metabolizing the drugs faster than they could keep up with before they put him in the tank - and he’s violently opposed to being carried. “-the fuck down!”

There’s another control panel at the top of the stairs. Kyle, after being kicked in the gut twice, sets Michael down and hoists one of his arms over his shoulders instead. Any further snarking falters when Kyle gets a good look at him - soaking and pale, bruised and wide-eyed, clutching a lab coat for protection - and a spark of something Alex remembers from his childhood flares in his old friend’s eyes.

As a child, Kyle had always been excruciatingly gentle. He rescued injured animals and always insisted on caring for the various scrapes he and Alex would collect during their adventures. It’s that inherent kindness and empathy that had made his later antagonism and cruelty so hard to stomach. Alex never quite felt like he deserved his father’s beatings until Kyle looked at his black eye and split lip, and ignored them.

But that concerned look is back as he scans experienced, educated eyes over Michael’s trembling body, and something untangles in Alex’s chest.

“Alex,” Michael moves on unsteady legs, steadied by Kyle. Alex can only spare him a look that lasts a fraction of a second.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Alex assures him, attention back on the control panel.

He’s going to need to find a terminal from which he can access the full security mainframe of the building. He’s not forgotten Jones’s boast that the site is designed to contain anyone with alien biometrics. They can’t attempt to leave until Alex establishes what that is, and disables it.

“You’re bleedin’,” Michael reaches for him, the panic in his voice reflected in his glassy eyes.

“Fuck,” Kyle breathes, snapping his attention from Michael to Alex. “Let me see-“

Alex shies away as much as he can while still working. “The glass shattered when Flint shot it out,” he says, not looking at the blood that’s spreading across his abdomen. “It’s a scratch. It’s fine.”

Rule number one of being in an active firefight: don’t acknowledge any injury. You do that, reality hits you in the face like an anvil.

It’s not actually rule one. It’s the Colonel’s rule and it’s further down the list. Somewhere between ‘ _don’t get injured in the fucking first place_ ’ and ‘ _everything’s flammable if you try hard enough_ ’.

The take away is: Alex has a job to do. If he’s still breathing, he’s still capable of doing it.

The door slides open and they stumble out into the ground floor level where Alex met Jones.

The relief at seeing daylight beyond the front windows is dampened significantly by the four M16A2s being aimed in their direction.

Alex can take one of them, maybe two, but they don’t stand a chance against four. He moves as best he can between Michael and Kyle, only to have Michael wrench himself free of Kyle’s grasp and shoulder him out of the way.

In the midst of all the chaos and bloodshed of the last few days, Alex has forgotten all about Michael’s little telekinetic show at the cabin.

This is beyond anything he can imagine.

Michael throws up a hand, and all four of the men before them go sailing into the walls with enough force to render them all unconscious. The power just explodes out of him in a wave, backed by a cry that’s more anger than pain. Alex can almost feel it, the air around him hot and heavy with kinetic energy, and Michael is beautiful, wrathful and dangerous.

Then he stumbles and sags against Kyle’s side, sapped of what little strength he’s managed to recover.

“I need a fucking drink,” Kyle mutters, back to the wide-eyed bewilderment he’s just managed to shake. “Fuck me. How is this my life?”

Alex moves quickly to kick their dropped weapons away from the unconscious men, then doubles back to the front desk and the computer terminal behind it. “Gotta say I’m asking myself the same question,” he says, rifling through the desk for - yes! There’s a small slip of paper hidden under the monitor. Military encryption is a bitch to work with when you’re on a time limit, but people are universally idiots. There’s always some asshole who can’t remember their login details. “Not that you don’t have spectacular timing, but why exactly are you here?”

Kyle’s taken advantage of the brief intermission in running for their lives to try and check Michael over. It’s going about as well as expected, with Michael slapping his hands away weakly every time Kyle tries to check his pulse. “I followed you,” he admits. “Damnit, Guerin, I’m trying to help here.”

“Your bedside manner sucks,” Michael snarls, trying to lean more on the desk than on Kyle. “Why were you following him?”

“Because I found him catatonic on the floor of his kitchen and within five minutes of regaining consciousness he was shooting out my tires and driving off like a lunatic.” Kyle doesn’t raise his voice, but the words seem to collide with brutal force into Michael’s chest, and the sound he makes in response is pained. “I was worried!” he says to Alex. “So once Triple-A fixed me up, I went looking for you. Saw the Jeep leaving the base and followed. I thought you were in trouble. Granted, I was thinking more organized crime than Men In Black, but-“ he looks at Michael thoughtfully, “does that make you Spock?”

“That’s Star Trek, asswipe.”

“Thank you, Valenti,” Kyle says sarcastically, “for being worried about your friend and saving both our asses.”

Michael’s shove lacks any strength. “You’re not his fucking friend.”

“You can both shut up now,” Alex says, not raising his voice and not tearing his eyes away from the screen, “unless you want this to take longer than it already is.”

“The front door’s right there-“ Kyle points out.

“And the second Michael goes through it, the whole building goes up in flames.” Alex has the schematics in front of him. No wonder the security here is relatively light on manpower. They’re not expecting anyone to break in: everything is focused on containing what’s inside.

“That- that’s a problem,” Kyle acknowledges. “Christ, Guerin, you’re freezing.” He manages to get a finger on Michael’s pulse and frowns. “Is your heart rate normally that slow?”

“Naked,” Michael snaps. “And how the fuck should I know?”

None of their bickerings stops Kyle from propping Michael against the desk and removing his leather jacket. “Here,” he says, throwing it around Michael’s shoulders. “Now, look at my finger.” He holds up his index finger and uses it to get a gauge on Michael’s ability to focus on one point.

“I will kill you with my brain,” Michael hisses.

“Michael!”

“Nah,” Kyle doesn’t even look at the four unconscious men they’re sharing space with. “Alex’d be pissed if you did that.”

“Alex is going to be pissed with the both of you in a minute.”

Surprisingly, wanting to smack their heads together makes it easier to focus on the code that’s blurring in front of him.

“How are you not freaking out right now?” Michael asks, his attempt to dial down the antagonism blatantly begrudging.

“Not gonna lie,” Kyle says, “I think I’m in shock.”

“Got it!” Alex shouts.

Something clicks in the mechanism of the door.

“Come on, Princess,” Kyle says, keeping Michael’s arm locked around his neck before leaning down and hauling him up into his arms. “I got you!”

Michael’s furious string of ‘fuck you’s’ follow Alex through the front door and all the way to Kyle’s SUV. He’ll give it to Kyle: the man sure knows how to handle people. Alex’s been prepared to deal with Michael catatonic and frightened, and with very little effort Kyle’s found the part of him that wants to fight and poked it until he’s got a response. It’s probably not the most traditional bedside manner, but it’s damn effective.

They’re not separating, which means abandoning his Jeep. It’s Air Force issue anyway, and he’s going to have to figure out how the fuck to handle that in the very near future, but he’s leaving nothing precious behind.

“You gotta drive,” he tells Kyle, directing him towards the front of the vehicle. He can see Kyle’s reluctance to leave his patient, but practicality overrides concern when Alex adds, “I’m fucked. Drive!”

Michael grunts as he’s all but thrown into the back seat. Alex scrambles in after him, slamming the door the same time Kyle does. The moment he’s inside, he's engulfed in Michael's arms.

The two guards who were on the front gate are numbered with the men Michael mentally blasted across the room, so there’s no one on the gate to stop them leaving. Breaking with a screech at the barrier, Kyle scrabbles from the driver's seat into the small cabin beside it and triggers the release mechanism.

“Go!” Alex shouts as he climbs back behind the wheel and fumbles with the stick shift. Michael’s still ice cold and shaking in his arms, his wet curls pressed against Alex’s cheek and his fingers clenching in the shoulders of his uniform, and they need to be a hundred fucking miles from this place. 

“Where?”

“Back to base,” Alex orders, words spoken between frantic kisses pressed to Michael’s temple.

He’s safe. They got him out. _He’s safe._

“Why the hell would we go back to _any_ kind of government establishment right now?” Kyle demands.

“We need leverage.” Kyle has a blanket folded up on the parcel shelf. Alex pries his arms from around Michael long enough to wrap it around him. “Call Max Evans,” he says. “Tell him we’ve got Michael and we’re on our way.”

“Leverage? We just broke into and out of a secret military base. What leverage do you think is going to get us _not_ arrested?”

“Well, my father’s tied to a chair in another secret military bunker, so-“

Kyle looks like he’s about to cry and his responding “Fuck,” is painfully emphatic. Still, he digs around in his pocket for his phone while keeping one hand on the wheel.

Alex turns all of his attention to Michael, cupping his bruised cheeks and trying to gauge just how much they’ve hurt him from the depths of pain in his eyes.

Michael wraps cold, stiff fingers around his wrists and clings on tightly. “I’m okay,” he says, his voice small but stubborn. “You shouldn’t have come, Alex.”

“I’ll always come for you,” Alex says firmly. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

The way Michael closes his eyes in pained disbelief sends a slice of agony straight to Alex’s heart. He draws him closer, pressing him into his shoulder and wrapping him so tightly in his arms it stops being easy to tell where he ends and Michael begins.

“I’m okay,” Michael whispers again, his lips cold and rough against Alex’s throat. “I’m okay.”

Alex nods. “You’re okay,” he agrees, finding it impossible to maintain the fierceness of his embrace. “You’re okay.”

He leans his cheek back against Michael’s curls, lets out a sigh of relief that blossoms from his soul, then allows the world to tip sideways and take his consciousness with it.

“Alex!”

 

 

 

 


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this part: fairly intense description of blood and injury. Also, some pretty handwavy medical facts! That said, we're bringing to a close the hurt! part of this story and now get to focus on AAAALL the comfort.

  
“Alex!” Michael already his has arms around Alex, so catching him as he loses consciousness is easy. What’s hard is the gun-blast shock of having Alex safely beside him one second - beautiful and brave and force of nature - and then terrifyingly limp and lifeless the next. Michael’s panic and fear are already dialed up to a hundred; there’s nowhere else for it to go. “Alex! No, no! Come on, Alex!”

“What? Guerin, what’s happening?” Valenti demands from the front. Michael ignores him, focusing instead on Alex, who is almost as pale as he is. He pushes him up against the back of the seat and puts enough space between them to investigate the damage. He knew Alex was hurt! _He knew it_! He should’ve insisted Valenti check him over-

The bloom of blood that covers his abdomen is sticky and dark, colluding with his weak, stiff fingers to make it even harder to unfasten the buttons of his uniform than it should be.

“Guerin!” Valenti snaps. “Talk to me, or I’m stopping the fucking car!”

“He- he’s unconscious. Bleeding.” So much blood. _Alex’s_ blood. He’s in a hospital in Germany again, looking down on Alex’s bruised, frighteningly still face, only this time Alex is not stable. He’s not somewhere safe. He’s bleeding out in the back of an SUV while on the run from people who will kill all three of them the second they get the chance.

“Is he breathing?” Valenti demands, turning them onto the freeway with a sharp burst of speed.

Michael lets his fingers brush over Alex’s lips and tries not to think of the last time he kissed them. Soft, fragile puffs of air brush against his skin and his heart explodes with relief. “Yes!”

Valenti seems to take that in. “Can you drive?”

Michael’s smearing Alex’s blood across his cheeks, but the need to touch, to reassure, is beyond his ability to escape. “Of course I can fucking drive!” he snaps.

“ _Now_ , dipshit!” Kyle swears.

“Oh.” Can he? Can he focus on the road, on traffic, on fleeing for their lives, while Alex is bleeding to death in the back seat? He can barely keep his eyes open and his brain engaged as it is. He'll steer them into oncoming traffic. “No.” It’s a painful admission, but it’s true.

Kyle throws a worried look over his shoulder, taking everything in with trained, focused eyes. He’s a surgeon, right? “Fuck. Okay, I'm taking him to the ER.”

That’s the first thing he’s said that Michael wants to agree with. He wants to demand everyone in a hundred miles with a medical license look at Alex and fix him now! But… “And explain it how? He's in uniform! They'll _find_ him! We have to get him to Max.” What good is it if Alex survives this only to end up in his father’s hands. It’s not escaped Michael that the reason Alex is bleeding in his arms is that his own brother shot him. They’ll kill him the second they get the chance to.

But Max… Max can save him. He’s never healed anything this bad, but he can do it. He _will_ do it. For Michael, and because Alex is trying to help them.

Because Alex came for him. Saved him. A desperate sob claws its way out of his throat. “Just, we have to get to Max.”

Valenti doesn’t look convinced, and why would he? Until five minutes ago, aliens were nothing more than an abstract concept for him. Now Michael’s telling him that a kid he went to High School with can heal with his mind? Yeah, that’ll go down well with Dr. _‘I’m an actual surgeon now_ ’ Valenti. “Why? He got magic healing hands or something?” Michael says nothing. What _can_ he say? “You're shitting me.”

A soft, pained noise escapes Alex’s parted lips. Michael has never envied his brother of anything more in his life. What fucking good is his power when Alex is going to die in his arms? “Please, Valenti!”

He can tell how much it costs Valenti to give in. He’s a doctor, Alex is - was, who the fuck knows- his friend. Trusting Michael now means going against every professional instinct he has. “I’m fucking insane,” he mutters. “Okay. Okay, I'm gonna talk you though stabilizing him, but you've gotta be honest with me okay?”

Michael’ll do a naked fucking jig on the roof of the car right now if he thinks it’ll help. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.” He runs a soothing hand down the side of Alex’s jaw, trying to find some way of transferring the desperate, hopeful love that’s screaming inside of him from his heart to Alex’s.

“You need to apply pressure to the injury. Use the lab coat and press firmly and evenly. You got that?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Michael’s got it. He bunches the coat up, trying to find a part of it that’s clean and not covered in whatever funky shit they used on him in the lab. When he’s made the best of it he can, he presses the wad of fabric against Alex’s side. Almost immediately, Alex’s eyelashes flutter and a choked gasp of pain pries itself from his throat.

Valenti looks quickly over his shoulder. “Okay good. Where's the blood coming from?”

“Right side. Upper abdomen. There’s no exit wound.” If he reaches out with his powers, he can feel the bullet still inside of him. Even battling unconsciousness, Alex is a fighter. He bucks and squirms weakly in Michael’s arms and Michael doesn’t have the strength to stop him. “Easy, darlin’,” he whispers, “it’s just me. I gotta do this, Alex, I’m sorry.”

“Above or below the ribs?” Valenti asks.

Part of Michael’s hand is pressing on the bottom of Alex’s ribcage, but the wound itself beneath it. “Below.”

“Is it bubbling? Is he having problems breathing?” He’s not sure if he’s projecting, but Valenti sounds more and more serious with every question.

“No. That's good, right?” Alex is still breathing. He’s not struggling or choking for air. That’s gotta be a good thing.

Valenti agrees. “Yeah. That doesn't sound like his lungs are compromised. What color is the blood?”

What kind of stupid fucking question is that? Michael’s the alien, not Alex. “Fucking red!”

Valenti ignores his attitude. “Dark? Bright?”

It’s not something he wants to look at, but he’ll force himself to for Alex’s sake. Blood is fucking blood, but he understands the question. The color of it will give them a better idea of what’s been damaged by the bullet. “Dark. Really dark.” Darker than any blood he’s seen before, that’s for sure. Kyle swears. “Is that bad? What does it mean?” He knows, instinctively, that it means something is wrong, seriously wrong. More so than the fact that Alex’s is fucking bleeding at all.

The SUV makes an abrupt, jarring stop at the side of the freeway and Kyle throws open his door before all but dragging Michael out of the back seat and taking his place. “It means his the bullet’s probably hit his liver. It means you need to fucking drive.”

Michael doesn’t protest. His hands are shaking when he puts them on the wheel, and he’s barely got the coordination to put the vehicle into gear, but Alex is counting on him. Keeping one eye on the road, he tries to watch what’s happening through the rearview mirror.

Valenti’s got Alex flat out on the back seat and is awkwardly straddling him. He carefully eases the edge of the rapidly soaking lab coat to one side to inspect the impact wound. “You tell me Max can heal gunshot wounds? Are you one hundred percent sure? Because either he’s got magical sci-fi healing hands, or we get Alex into the OR in the next fifteen minutes. Or he's dead.”

“We're more than fifteen minutes from Roswell!” Michael’s already pushing the speed limit. They need to be fast, but they can’t afford to get pulled over.

“If Max can reverse the damage, regenerate the damaged tissue-“

“He can,” Michael swears. “He’s done it before. I know he can.”

He sees Valenti nod in the mirror. “Then I can keep him alive long enough for you to get us to him. But Guerin? If you’re wrong? If he dies? I’ll drag you back to that facility myself, we clear?” He meets Michael’s gaze in the mirror, something dark and furious and undefinable in the depths of his expression. Michael nods. If Alex dies, he doesn’t fucking care what Valenti does to him.

“He can,” Michael says again, a mantra he’ll keep repeating over and over until Alex wakes up. Alex has to wake up. Michael’s at his fucking limit for trauma right now, he can’t even start to comprehend a world without Alex in it.

“Alright,” Valenti says. He shifts, planting one leg in the footwell for leverage. “Sorry Alex,” he says, sounding every bit genuine.

The sudden shockwave of Alex’s scream nearly sends Michael careening into the side of another vehicle. He looks back in the mirror: Valenti’s pressing most of his bodyweight directly onto the wound, his back and shoulders bunched with the effort. The pain has dragged Alex literally kicking and screaming back into consciousness, Michael’s name on his lips.

“Alex,” Valenti’s voice is completely different now, “it’s Kyle. I need you to calm down and look at me. I know this isn’t your first rodeo; you know the drill. Look at me, Alex.”

“Michael!” It’s a cry and a plea all in one and it breaks something in Michael’s heart that will never be fixed. Alex is supposed to be safe. He’s supposed to be safe, and hating Michael, not bleeding and in pain and crying out Michael’s name as if one word from him will make all that suffering worthwhile.

It takes time to work the words around the lump in his throat. “I’m here, sweetheart.” He keeps his eyes on the road. If he looks back at Alex now, there won’t be any stopping the sobs that are fighting to escape him. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Alex’s breathing sounds worse now. Panic and the pressure of Valenti weight against his chest are forcing short, sharp gasps as he weakly tries to push Valenti away. “W-what-“

“You’ve been shot,” Valenti says with a calmness that’s enviable. “I have to keep the pressure on the wound or you’re going to bleed out, you understand? You need to stop fighting me.”

“I didn’t-“ Alex sounds like he did when he woke from his coma - and christ, if that’s not a sad, sorry sentence to run through Michael’s head - confused and scared. It’s frightening how quickly he’s gone from calm, rational competency to _this_.

“Oh you absolutely got shot,” Valenti says. “Which would’ve been awesome if you’d told us at the time.”

“Michael,” Alex moans.

“Guerin’s doing fine,” Valenti assures him. “Way better than your sorry ass.”

“Save him. Love him.”

“And I expect an invite to the wedding,” Valenti says with forced cheer. “You gotta tell me all the fun details so I can work them into an embarrassing best man speech. How _did_ you end up banging ET?”

Michael desperately wants to respond, but he can see what he’s is trying to do. Alex seems to be fading in and out of consciousness, and Valenti is trying to force his focus.

Of all the possible answers Alex can give, he manages to pick the one that hurts Michael the most. “You….can’t - can’t tell anyone. He’s…. they’ll hurt him.”

“Hey,” Valenti’s voice softens. “We won’t let that happen, okay? You and I are gonna keep him safe. You just gotta stay focused, okay Alex? You can’t protect him if you die on us.”

Micheal doesn’t try and pretend tears aren’t streaming down his face.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Alex is supposed to be safe.

He’d rather be back in that tank than here, listening to Alex die.

Alex doesn’t answer again. His frantic breathing softens.

From behind him, Valenti says, “Drive faster.”

It’s a three hour drive from Santa Fe to Roswell. They make it in just under two.

They’re the longest two hours of Michael’s life.

Once they’re out of the city, the desert turns into one endless blur, a hellscape they’re trapped in, the three of them locked in a cycle of blood and frantic desperation. Twenty minutes outside of Roswell, Alex stops breathing. Valenti, who has sacrificed his shirt to the lost cause of wound dressing, manages to get his belt fastened in place to keep the pressure firm while he performs CPR, and the only reason Michael doesn’t drive them off the road is that he knows them well enough to navigate them with his eyes closed.

The way he’s crying, they might as well be.

Ten minutes away from their destination, he fumbles with Valenti’s phone and dials Max’s number. He doesn’t answer the first time or the second. The third time, just as Michael is about to pass out from panic, his brother’s rough, angry voice answers.

“ _Who is this?”_

“Max!”

The anger vanishes. “ _Michael! Are you okay? Where are you? Are you hurt?”_

After being certain he’s never going to hear his brother’s voice again, the relief that hits him almost robs what little strength Michael has left.

He can’t speak around his fear, choking on the nightmare he’s trapped in.

_“Michael!”_

Then, as sweet a sound as ever there was, Isobel speaks. “ _I’ve got you,”_ she says, sure and strong and in control, _“we’re coming to you.”_

They do. When Michael pulls into the same abandoned site he followed Alex to what seems like a decade ago, they are there, waiting for them.

Michael is throwing open the door before the SUV even stops, stumbling into Max’s arms. “Alex!”

There was a time he and Max never needed words to understand one another. They knew, instinctively, what the other needed. Michael’s been missing that for nearly ten years, but in that second, Max is there. He’s listening.

He passes Michael into Isobel’s arms and races to the back of the SUV.

Between him and Valenti, they get Alex onto the ground and Max wastes no time. Now that Michael can finally see him, Alex looks dead, and it shatters what little of his heart that hasn't yet broken. He and Valenti are both covered in blood, too much blood for him to survive losing it.

Isobel has to shoulder Michael's weight as his legs sag. “Max, please!” he sobs.

“Shush,” she strokes her hand through his hair and rocks him, “it’s okay, it’s okay. Max’s got him.”

Valenti refuses to be pushed aside and in that second, Michael forgives him every past transgression, every unhealed hurt. He looks wrecked, exhausted and wrung out, and he’s the only reason Alex is still in a condition to be saved.

Back in Germany, Max offered to heal Alex’s wounds, regardless of the cost to them. Michael refused him. Michael still thought he could have both. Now, Max doesn’t hesitate. The headlights in Valenti’s SUV explode in time with the street lighting lining the lot. This is more than Max has ever healed before, but thanks to Valenti, Alex is still breathing, his pulse is still beating. They’re weak, but they’re there. It’s enough. It _has_ to be enough.

It is.

Max lets out an agonized scream, and Alex suddenly moves. He gasps, sitting upright with a jolt even as Max falls to his knees beside him.

He’s alive. He’s okay.

Michael wrenches himself from Isobel’s arms and throws himself across the space that parts them. He doesn’t feel any pain as his bare knees hit the dirt, he only feels Alex, whole and alive and real.

“Michael!”

Alex’s arms move to support him and, as they close a cocoon of home and love and safe around him, Michael lets go of everything.

Alex is okay, and so he breaks.

 

 


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for some looong overdue comfort. For some reason, I am more nervous about posting this part than I was about any of the previous ones... go figure!

Michael isn’t sure how they end up in Isobel’s guest suite. He has vague, watercolor blurs of memories, none of which form a whole. All he does know is that Alex never once lets him out of the circle of his arms, not until they are alone and even then only to start unfastening his uniform. They don’t talk, they don’t need to. Michael’s cold every place Alex isn’t touching and he doesn't know how to even begin processing everything that’s happened. He wants to hold Alex, he wants to hand over the broken parts of his heart to the only person in the world who has told him he loves him and proven it in the same breath.

They need to talk. They need to talk about so much. Just... not now.

Down to only his pants and boots - both crusted with dried blood - Alex sets Michael against the side of the bathtub and gently brushes his cheek before turning and fiddling with the dials of the walk-in shower. He’s out of reach for only a few moments, moments in which he’s never out of sight, but Michael can’t stop the way his breathing hitches in the start of panic.

They still don’t speak. Alex turns back to him, the softest smile on his face, and unfastens his belt buckle. Michael, before he can even be asked, slides from the side of the tub to his knees and starts to unfasten Alex’s boots. They’ve done this before, in the bedroom, Michael on his knees, worshipful and devoted, but there’s nothing remotely sexual about it now. He’s there because Alex might not have a bullet in his chest anymore, but he’s pushed his body well beyond its limits all in the name of saving Michael’s life. There have been times in the past where bending down to fasten his laces has been more than Alex’s body can handle; Michael refuses to let that happen today.

The hand Alex slides into his knotty hair is more for balance than anything, but it’s a comfort for Michael and he hopes it’s one for Alex as well.

His uniform is beyond salvaging. Michael throws it and the boots to the far side of the bathroom, wanting the reminder of Alex’s brush with death out of sight if not out of mind. When he touches reverent fingers to the prosthetic, he’s asking what Alex wants as much as he’s asking for permission.

Michael knows what _he_ wants. He wants to be under the heat and the steam that’s blasting from the shower-head, and he wants to be there with Alex. He doesn’t want to be parted for even that long. He wants to wash away the blood that’s dried on Alex's skin and soothe the muscles that clench and tremble with overuse.

Alex nods, his gaze heavy, and braces himself against the counter while Michael carefully undoes the mechanism holding the prosthetic in place. Once that’s removed, he gently slides the stocking from Alex’s thigh and presses a gentle kiss to the curve of his knee.

Alex has to help him stand. Now he’s down there, the only thing that stops Michael from just pressing his face into Alex’s stomach and crying is the desperate need to be clean.

Once they are under the water, the rest of the world vanishes. He tries to start the process of cleaning away scabbed blood, only for Alex to wrap his fingers around Michael’s own and still the process. Michael doesn’t protest. He’s malleable and trusting in Alex’s safe hands. When Alex leans against the shower wall and encourages Michael to put his back to him, he moves as instructed.

Maybe Alex needs this as much as Michael does? The first swipe of a lathered washcloth strokes carefully over the ball of Michael’s shoulder, and his hands are trembling. Under their careful motions and the perfect heat of the water, the pain and terror of the last few days slowly unclench their claws from Michael’s bones. Alex is thorough and careful, rubbing the cloth over every inch of Michael’s back and neck before encouraging him to turn around so he can continue.

If you’d told Michael a week ago that he could be sharing a shower with Alex and not once even consider all of the ways he might want to make him whimper and moan…

Michael has never felt what he feels now. He’s never felt so safe, or so loved, and when Alex makes no move to brush away the tears that roll down his cheeks, he knows he doesn’t need to explain them. Alex knows.

When he’s finished washing Michael’s chest, he takes a careful breath and sinks slowly down to his knees. Michael’s protests, immediate and pained, are brushed away with a smile that’s luminous, the crystal refractions of his own tears enough to silence unspoken fears. Alex does need this as much as Michael does. He needs to rid Michael of every trace that place has left on his skin, and he won’t settle until he’s satisfied it’s done.

No part of Michael is overlooked, from his fingers to his toes, and the tenderness might just break him as surely as the fear.

With the water pounding down on them, Michael leans forward and lets his shoulders take the full force of it, sheltering Alex below, and when Alex reaches up, his job done, Michael seizes the excuse to haul him up into his arms. His turn now, surely?

Alex reaches up and tugs on one of his curls as an answer. A no, then, and that’s how they both end up on the floor of the shower, Michael’s head tipped back against Alex’s shoulder. No one has ever washed Michael’s hair before. Hell, he has no memory of anyone ever bathing him either. Alex takes to both with the detail orientated focus that makes him so formidable. There’s strength in his fingers as he presses them into Michael's skull, easing pains and pressures Michael is barely capable of recognizing right now. There’s tenderness, too, and care taken not to pull or snag tangled curls. While Alex busies himself with shampoo and conditioner, Michael traces his fingers across the smooth scars on his leg. There’s no part of him, body or soul, that he’s willing to keep from Alex now, and Alex seems to be offering up the same.

They stay on the floor of the shower; it bigger than the entire bathroom in Michael’s airstream and more than spacious enough for them. When Alex has finished rinsing the last suds from Michael’s hair, he presses a flutter of a kiss to the tip of his ear.

_Now_ , now it’s Michael’s turn. He lets Alex stay seated as he is and twists until he can kneel between his legs. Most of the blood has washed away by this point, but there’s a stubborn spot just below his ribs. Michael cleans it away tenderly, his fingers hesitant and light as they trace the line of the iridescent handprint that is seared into his flesh. There’s no jealousy at the sign of another man’s mark on beloved skin, only breathtaking, world-affirming relief. He was so close. So close to losing Alex forever.

It’s hard to tell what Alex thinks of it. His dark hair clings to his face and there are galaxies in his eyes, and when he takes Michael’s hand in his own and presses it over Max’s mark there’s only warmth and love there to touch. Michael presses the palm of his left hand over Alex’s heart and sinks into the moment, life and death beneath his fingers, and Alex, wholly and completely his.

Fantasies of losing himself in Alex, in his touch, in his body, in his love, fall fragile and pale compared to the moment they float in. He has never, will never, be closer to another person. This is it. This is home.

He doesn’t even want to kiss Alex.

Or, well, he always wants to kiss Alex, but that’s not what this is. It’s something he doesn’t have the words or the imagination to describe.

He’s no idea how long they stay like that, his hands firm over Alex’s heart and side, lost in each other’s eyes, but eventually Alex shifts, something too close to pain flashing comet-like against velvet darkness.

Michael stands and draws Alex up, holding him close as he reaches behind him to turn off the flow of water. They forgo drying off with towels in favor of the thick robes that hang on the back of the door. The towels are saved for Alex to playfully tousle Michael’s hair, his own standing up in spikes after ten seconds of vigorous rubbing. It robs years from him, years that should’ve been spent in Michael’s arms, and in those warm, comfortable moments, they are teenagers again, hopeful and bright.

Michael ruins it by almost unhinging his jaw with a yawn, and the brightness of Alex's smile shifts into something soft and affectionate.

Suddenly feeling freer than he ever has, Michael wraps his power around Alex and takes his weight thoughtlessly into his arms. It gets him a wide-eyed look, but one full of wonder, not fear. It’s something Michael feels a reflection of in his own heart. This, Alex, shower warm and soft, letting Michael hold him, help him, is not something for the outside world. With anyone else, Alex would dry himself off, put his prosthetic back on, and pretend to be fine. It’s not that he trusts Michael enough to be vulnerable with him, it’s that he loves him enough to understand that this isn’t weakness.

Still, there’s a flush to his cheeks that draw a rumble of a chuckle from Michael’s chest. How exactly Alex has any right to be this soft in his arms after the absolute bad-assery he’s just pulled is beyond him.

Isobel’s left them clothes on the bed. As soon as Michael’s set Alex down, Alex is back to taking charge, one dark, expressive eyebrow raised until Michael unfastens the robe and lets himself be dried off and dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt. When Alex pulls back the sheets on the bed, he doesn’t protest before climbing in.

Once dressed, there’s a war in Alex’s eyes as they dart between Michael and the door. There are things they need to take care of, loose ends that need tying, and Michael’s not about to forget his claim that he has Jesse Manes tied to a chair somewhere... but he’s exhausted, and Michael needs him.

He catches hold of Alex’s wrist and draws him closer, lifting the bedding to make space enough for him to crawl in beside him.

When he settles against Michael’s side, the last piece of a puzzle slots into place and the broken pieces of his heart start to fuse back together in the same flawless way the pieces of his ship do when reunited.

This is where they’re both supposed to be. Together.

Alex tucks his head against Michael’s shoulder and wraps an arm around his waist.

Michael loops his arm around him until it can cover the handprint on his skin.

When he falls asleep, he does so knowing that Alex will still be in his arms when he wakes.

 

 


	33. Chapter 33

Michael leaves Alex to finish getting dressed, a kiss dropped to his forehead on the way out of the bedroom. He follows the quiet sounds of conversation all the way to the kitchen and finds Kyle Valenti, bright eyed and bushy tailed at Isobel’s kitchen table. The bright-eyed part might be down to the enormous mug of coffee he’s working his way through. Michael decides he hates him all over again when his own bathtub of coffee doesn’t miraculously appear in his hands.

“Mornin’” Valenti says, inhaling his caffeine and shivering in satisfaction. “How are you feeling?”

Michael grunts. No words until after coffee. Alex knows better than to try to get anything out of him that isn’t sex-related. It’s one of the many reasons why Alex is the one source of perfection on this stupid, caffeine depleted planet. Valenti should be smart enough to figure that shit out himself.

Isobel has the double doors to her ridiculous fridge open and is contemplating the contents with serious intent. Micheal uses her distraction to make a beeline for the coffee maker. Can he just put a straw straight into the jug? “What does Alex like for breakfast?” she asks. “Toast? Waffles? Cereal? I've got bacon, I think. Oh! Pancakes?”

Pouring himself a mug full of coffee, he dumps half a bottle of acetone in with it, idly stirs a spoon with his powers, and roots through her cabinets to find Alex a mug that won’t matter if he drops it. “If you ask him he'll say toast,” he says, digging out a blue mug that doesn’t match any of the others, “but he likes pancakes.”

Isobel peers out from behind the fridge door. “I can make pancakes.”

“Toast is fine, really. Thank you.” Alex’s crutches are somewhere abandoned in Not!Area 51 and his limp is pronounced as he makes his way to the kitchen table. He looks as tired as Michael feels, his usually neat hair sticking up wildly and the white, oversized hoodie he’s wearing emphasizing the dark shadows that hang under his eyes. Normally, when he looks even half as exhausted as he does now, they are at home and Michael has the privacy and time to either drag his stubborn ass back to bed or bury him under every blanket they own.

He knows better to even try it right now and settles instead of passing him his coffee. It’s not as satisfying as the tired mumbles he sometimes presses into Michael’s neck when he’s successful in his ‘get Alex more sleep’ quests, but the smile Alex shoots him is a good consolation prize. Neither of them slept well last night.

This is a side of Alex Isobel hasn’t seen before, and she looks positively distraught at the idea of providing her guest of honor with such a plain breakfast. “But you like pancakes! You don't want pancakes?”

This is going to be one of those unstoppable force/immovable object moments, Michael just knows it. If there’s a human who can go toe to toe with his sister when it comes to stubbornness, it’s Alex, and they’re about to pit his lack of self-esteem against her self-imposed rules of hospitality. “I don't want you to go to any trouble,” Alex says predictably.

“They're pancakes!”

Michael’s still not sure what to make of Valenti. The man saved Alex’s life, and for that Michael owes him a debt that can never be repaid, but in the cold light of day, he’s still someone who knows their secret, and he’s still the guy who bullied them both relentlessly in school. Still, he looks at Alex with fond warmth and says, “I saw chocolate sauce in the pantry.”

Alex, already halfway through his coffee, rolls his eyes. “What, am I ten years old now?”

“Ten year old you was way too smart to turn down chocolate pancakes,” Valenti grins.

Alex returns the smile with a wistful one of his own. “That's because your mom’s an awesome cook and she was the only one who ever made them for me.” He probably doesn’t mean anything by it - Alex isn’t a cruel man - but the words hold a reminder of _past_. Of something they used to share, and that Alex has lost. The smile falls from Valenti’s face.

Isobel, still fixated on breakfast as a manageable task to consume herself with, misses the emotional weight of the words Alex says and focuses only on the reality of them. “I will make you pancakes every day for the rest of your life,” she announces firmly. It’s clear she has no idea how to handle either the fact that Alex knows about them, or the fact that he’s risked everything to keep them safe, and is apparently choosing to disguise the fact with breakfast. “You like blueberries? We have blueberries. Had. Michael, go get me some blueberries.”

“You hate cooking,” Michael points out, trying to ease the frantic live-wire spark in her eyes.

“I will learn to love it for Alex's sake!” She snaps. Alex is by this point caffeinated enough to understand they are talking about far more than pancakes, looks at Michael with something close to alarm.

“Or I could just get my mom to make more,” Valenti adds mulishly. “She misses you.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake…

He needs another six cups of coffee to navigate the multiple threads of unspoken conversations, and irritation rears its head. “Or, you know, his boyfriend, the one person here who actually knows how to cook, could make them.”

“Is... there a reason you're fighting over making me pancakes?” Alex asks, uncharacteristically hesitant.

“No!” Valenti and Isobel say as one.

“Valenti has his panties in a twist after giving mouth-to-mouth to the guy he was homophobically abusive towards in high school,” Michael says sourly, “Izzy has no idea how to thank you for saving my life, and they’re both freaking out because aliens are a _thing_ and now people _know_ aliens are a thing.”

Alex, proving he knows him better than anyone alive, raises a curious eyebrow, “And you’re freaking out because…” he knows the answer, the asshole, he just wants Michael to say it aloud.

“Because you know the truth. Because you nearly died. Because I couldn’t protect myself, let alone anyone else.” Pick one.

For a moment, it’s just the two of them in space, Alex’s dark eyes seeing past every plate of armor, every veneer of normal. Isobel’s not the only one who doesn’t know how to handle the fact that Alex knows what he is. Yesterday they got caught up in adrenaline and emotion, today, whose to say Alex doesn’t change his mind?

Valenti shatters the silence. “No one’s gonna hear anything from me,” he says, looking first at Michael, and then Isobel. “I mean, Alex’s proved your secret’s safe with him and neither of you really know me, but -“ he takes a deep breath, “I’m not interested in seeing anyone get hurt. _Do no harm_. As far as I’m concerned, that oath extends to keeping your secret.” There’s a seriousness and levity in his voice that Michael believes is genuine. Kyle has no intention of selling them out.

That doesn’t mean their secret is safe with him. He might not actively seek to give them up but under threat? Under torture?

There’s a reason they’ve never told anyone, and it’s as much to do with the danger it puts that person in as it is the risk they might be compromised.

Alex has already proven just _how_ dangerous it is for any human who knows the truth.

Yesterday’s Michael would’ve scorned him. Today’s Michael remembers the two hours he spent keeping Alex alive when Michael couldn’t.

He nods. It’s as close to acceptance as he can give.

Valenti returns the gesture with a grateful smile, then turns to Alex. “Yesterday doesn’t change anything for us, though,” he says, and Michael reassesses his desire to punch him through a wall because Alex’s face closes off in a second and wariness creeps into his eyes. Valenti sees it, too, and holds up his hands. “No! I mean… I mean I came to see you that morning because I’ve literally spent years trying to figure out how to apologize to you for, well... everything.” He sighs and seems to be shouldering the weight of those years badly.

Alex starts to speak, “Kyle-“

“No,” he shakes his head. “No, you’re gonna tell me that we’re good, that me turning up and saving your ass wipes the slate clean or something, and that’s what I mean. It doesn’t change anything. I’m a doctor. I’d do the same for anyone. So no, slates’s not clean. I’ve got a lot to make up for. But I’d like to try. If you’ll let me.”

Isobel doesn’t even pretend she’s not listening, her elbows propped up on the counter as she watches. Michael pours himself another coffee and marvels at how easy it is to just lean back and not get involved. The knee-jerk protectiveness he feels is no less fierce, but it’s offset by the knowledge that Alex doesn’t need him to fight his battles for him. If he wants to repair things with Valenti, he will. If he doesn’t, he won’t. The kind, gentle heart that beats in his chest is more than strong enough to make that choice.

Of course, if Valenti _does_ fuck things up, Michael will totally kill him then. But on Alex’s terms.

“Watch Star Trek,” Alex says, a hint of a smile creeping across his face, “and we’ll talk.”

Valenti nods, serious. Michael’ll kill to see his face when he realizes how many fucking series of Star Trek there actually are.

But - “Speaking of talking,” Michael says reluctantly. “We should…” Where the fuck to even start?

“Can I have my laptop back?” Alex asks, sensing a shift in the conversation, just a hint of something in his voice that makes Michael cringe and feel a few inches tall.

“Yeah,” Michael runs a hand through his hair. “Iz, did you find the stuff I left you?”

She nods and retreats to her studio, returning with one of the boxes he put in the trunk of her car. Alex’s laptop sits on the top. He reaches for it when she sets the box down on the table, then hesitates, drawn by what sits beneath it.

“Pretty sure it’s part of the ship we were in,” Michael explains, something warm and unexpected unfurling in his chest as Alex runs careful, reverent fingers over the iridescent glass. “I’ve been collecting parts for years. Found some online, stole some from the UFO Emporium-“

Alex looks up sharply, “That’s not why you spent so much time there when we were-“ That look is back in his eyes, the one Michael put there when he lied and told him how he’d used him.

He pushes away from the counter and closes the space between them with a burst of speed. “No!” The museum has always been special for them. “That museum celebrates the crash that killed most of my family,” he says quietly. “The only reason I could ever bring myself to visit was that I knew I might get to see you.” Before, and after. When an innocent crush meant a glimpse of Alex, and when first stirrings of love meant frantic kisses stolen in the shadows. “I stole these a couple of years ago after Grant Green started bragging about them.”

Both Isobel and Valenti are watching, curious. Isobel has seen the glass before and pointedly refused to have anything to do with them, desperately clinging to her nice, normal, safe existence.

The only thing Michael cares about is ridding that doubt from Alex’s expression. He reaches up and cups his cheek, something once scarcely dreamed about in public, but now met with an almost certain guarantee that it’s welcome.

Alex leans a fraction into Michael’s touch and nods.

“It’s beautiful,” Alex says. “I know where there’s another piece if you’re able to repair it.”

“Yeah,” Michael says excitedly. “They sorta fit together, fuse on a molecular level. I’m pretty sure it’s a control panel. If I can find all the pieces then I can attach it to a vehicle and-“

He knows, instantly, when Alex understands what he’s saying.

It’s _wrong_. Even Michael doesn’t understand what he’s saying, not anymore.

But Alex hears the words and knows none of the turmoil, and Michael understands for the very first time what it is to witness a heart break.

“A vehicle,” Alex says brokenly, blinking rapidly as he stares down at the glass - at anywhere that’s not Michael. “You’re planning on leaving. The planet.”

“Alex-“ he reaches for him again. This time he’s not welcome. When Alex pulls too far away for him to reach, he tries to catch his arm and pull him back, only to be met with tension and resistance and the unmistakable knowledge that the only way he can draw Alex back right now is to physically force him.

He lets go, bile rising in his throat.

“I need-“ Alex pulls back from Michael, physically and emotionally, and grabs his laptop. “I need to get to the bunker. Someone needs to relieve Max, and I have to deal with my father, and-“

“Alex!”

“Kyle,” Valenti looks like a buck caught in the headlights of a Jeep. “Can you drive me?”

“I think you guys should maybe talk about this before-“ Valenti says, pushing away from the table as if physical distance will somehow help.

“Kyle!” If Michael wasn’t so caught up in his own misery and fear, he’d feel sorry for Valenti. The guy’s desperate to win back Alex’s friendship and despite the reluctance Michael can see in him, he slowly nods.

“Thanks for the coffee, Isobel,” he says, pushing back his chair.

Anything soft and approachable in Alex is long gone, shored up behind a solid wall, the shutters slammed shut, and this time Michael is the one left on the outside.

 

 


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Alex's PTSD and depression is a hurdle - maintaining a regular schedule and taking his meds when he's supposed to is a big deal, and he's ignored all that to battle covert government agencies, so.... He also has some pretty negative internal monologuing going on for him.

  
“Alex! Alex, _damnit_!”

Alex isn’t consciously aware of leaving Isobel’s kitchen, but by the time Michael’s voice catches up to him, he’s standing in her driveway, staring in bewilderment at his truck. He's zoning out. That's not... he can't lose track of time, not right now.

The world is spinning in that strange, off-kilter way it does when something you know for certain turns out to be a lie. No, not a lie. A false assumption made on an incomplete understanding of the facts. In this case being that Michael has both the means and motivation to not just leave him, but leave the entire planet.

He stumbles over nothing and the hands that catch him do so with competent ease.

“-And…. you’ve not taken your meds, have you?” He only catches the tail end of the words said to him. Has he? He doesn’t actually know what day it is…

Those strong hands take hold of his face. Not Michael’s hands, Micheal’s hands are rough and scarred. Kyle’s hands. Doctor’s hands. Alex blinks and tries to focus on the face in front of him. Yeah, that’s Kyle.

“Alex, look at me,” Kyle says calmly, a quiet authority in his voice that reminds Alex of the Colonel. It’s that ‘ _do as you’re told because I tell you to do it_ ’ voice of confident experience. Alex frowns and returns his stare. “There you are,” Kyle grins. “Okay, new plan. You’re going home with Guerin-“

Michael moves into Alex’s line of sight but says nothing.

“But-“ he doesn’t have time. He doesn’t have time for anything. Not his stupid head, not his body, not the crippling desperation he has to curl up in a ball and not move for a year or so.

Kyle doesn’t look like he gives a damn what excuse Alex comes up with. “No. No arguments, Captain. You’re off duty for twenty-four hours, understand?”

The use of his rank clicks something in Alex’s brain. Off duty. That… god, that sounds nice.

The rest of Kyle’s words focus themselves more slowly, but they bring with them a desperate surge of longing. Home. With Michael. Yes.

The cabin is home, and it’s safe. It’s defensible territory, and if Michael’s there with him then Alex can ensure nothing will happen. No one will hurt him. No one will take him away.

Kyle wants him to rest, but he can’t. Not yet. Not until he knows he can keep Michael safe.

“My father-“

“Let me go check in on Max, okay?” Kyle says. “He and I are more than capable of handling your dad until tomorrow. You’re gonna go home with Guerin and take your medication. The two of you are going to sleep, and eat and be grownups and talk about shit and when everyone is on the same page, we’re gonna figure this out together, okay?”

“This isn’t your fight, Kyle,” Alex says. Kyle is the first person who has expressed an interest in sharing the responsibility of what’s happening in a way that’s not clouded by anger and terror. It makes it harder to refuse his help than it was to refuse Max’s. “I’m sorry you got dragged into it, but you don’t have any obligation to stay involved.”

Instead of protesting, or denying what Alex is saying, Kyle reaches down and unfastens Alex’s hoodie. Michael makes an unhappy sound when Kyle tugs the hem of Alex’s shirt up and touches the shimmering handprint Max left behind.

“I think,” Kyle says slowly, “it actually might be my fight too. Before he died my dad told me ‘if you see the handprint, go to Manes’.” Alex looks sharply at Michael as he swears, the frightened look in his eyes one he never wants to see again. “I don’t know how,” Kyle says, sighing heavily, “but both our families are neck deep in this, and if my dad had any involvement in the kind of thing they tried to do to Guerin…” he trails off with a wounded, uncertain look on his face. “So yeah. Let me help.”

“Valenti’s right,” Michael says.

“Well that’s the world about to end,” Kyle snorts, letting Michael take his place and slide his hands down Alex’s shoulders.

“You slept like shit last night,” Michael says, and that’s a painful understatement. Every sound, every heartbeat, woke him with the crippling fear that just beyond the bedroom door lay a group of men in masks and lab coats just waiting to drag Michael away. “And you need to take your meds.” Michael means more than just the painkillers and muscle relaxants. He means the antidepressants and the sedatives that keep his PTSD and anxiety at bay.

Logically, Alex recognizes that they are both right.

Childishly, he thinks back to all the times he’s operated on less rest and with injuries _not_ healed by an alien. He’s always been able to do his job. He’s never had to stop before the mission is complete.

He hates, _hates_ , that things are different now. That _he’s_ different. That he’s less efficient, less capable, less in control.

“Please, Alex,” Michael says. Michael’s a dick. He looks exhausted and broken and afraid, and he’s a dick because of course Alex is going to give in when he looks at him like he is doing.

He nods, and both of them deflate in relief. “Go,” Kyle says, “I promise to call you if anything happens.”

“Be careful,” Michael says, surprising Alex as much as Kyle.

“You too,” Kyle says, climbing into his SUV.

Michael insists on driving. Alex is in enough pain that just trying to argue the point is beyond him. It means he can press his head against the window and drift off in a sea of dusty colors, both here and a thousand miles away all at once.

“I’m not leaving you,” Michael says after twenty minutes of driving in silence. He doesn’t look at Alex, his eyes stay fixed on the road, but it feels as though every part of him is trying to reach across a space Alex has forced between them.

They’re the words Alex wants to hear. He’s just fought - and apparently died - to get Michael back. He’s still reeling from the idea of losing him again. That simple statement, honest and pure, does a lot to stabilize the ground Alex is struggling to balance on.

But, and here’s where it all goes to hell, wanting - needing - to hear them is selfish.

Beyond all of the reasons that make getting as far away from humanity and all associated evils the smartest thing Micahel can do, there’s something much simpler at the heart of Alex’s conflict.

“Maybe you should,” he says, glancing at Michael through shaded lashes, unsure if the clench of his fists on the wheel or the working of his jaw are attempts to hold back anger or tears.

“Why the fuck would you say that?” Michael demands.

“You saw what I found,” Alex says. “You could go home.” Alex decoded the map. How fitting that he’s the instrument of his own destruction. Michael can finish the console, and he’s more than smart enough to figure out how to actually get the thing into space and then… and then that’s it, really. He leaves. He goes home. His real home.

“ _You’re_ my home, asshole!” Michael yells.

Alex stares at him. “I’m not sure if that was supposed to be romantic or-“ he shakes his head; that’s beside the point. “I love you. And I know that you love me. But this is something… this is your future. Your past. I don’t know what it is, but I can’t be the one keeping you from it.”

“You’re fucking stupid, you know that, right?” Michael grumbles. “I spent the last decade trying to find a way off this stupid fucking planet because the only thing on it that I wanted - that’s you, by the fucking way - was something I couldn’t have. And then - and then I have it! Have you! And it’s perfect. Only I don’t get perfect, because I’m a fucking alien, right? So - so I’ll take the next best thing, which is you not being murdered by your psychopath of a father, and that’s worth living through every nightmare I had as a kid! Including you looking at me the way I _made_ you look at me!”

“Guerin-“ He's tearing himself apart with every word, and Alex can't stand to watch but there's no stopping him now he's started. 

“Only you had to fuck it up! You knew what I was! You knew it, and you came anyway. You saved me, you fucking dick! No one has ever saved me. Not once. Not ever! And it nearly killed you. No, no, no it _actually_ killed you. You died, Alex. You died, and Valenti - _fucking Valenti!_ \- is the only reason we even got you to Max in time, because I was fucking useless. I couldn’t do anything, not a goddamn fucking thing! So yeah, Alex. I wanna finish putting together my fucking spaceship. I wanna finish it, and I wanna take it to the other side of the fucking universe, get as far away from fucking humans as I can. And if you think for one second I’d leave without you then-“ he barely stops to breathe during his rant, but then all of a sudden deflates, heated frustration and anger giving over to heartbreaking misery. “Then I really have failed you.”

“Michael-“ Alex reaches out and puts a hand on his thigh.

“No,” he shakes his head but doesn’t shrug Alex off. “You think I have to choose. One or the other. You or the universe. I’m tired of choosing, Alex. I’m tired of being grateful for the scraps fate deigns to send my way. I want both.” He pulls over to the side of the road. There’s not a car in sight, just them and the desert, and when he wraps his fingers around Alex’s and raises them to his lips, the fight has all but vanished from his body. “But if I had to choose? If I had to pick between you and the universe?”

Alex looks away. He knows the answer. He knows he’ll survive the words, even if he doesn’t want to. He just doesn’t have the guts to look Michael in the eye as he hears them.

Michael reaches over and draws him back, the fingers under his chin tender and light. “There’s only one thing I can’t live without, Alex, and it’s not the universe.”

‘I love you’ is supposed to be the ultimate declaration of love and devotion, but those words pale in comparison to the ones Michael has just spoken. What can Alex say that’s worthy of that? How do you even begin to be worth someone turning their back on galaxies?

He pops his seatbelt and climbs awkwardly into Michael’s lap.

There aren’t words, and in truth, Alex has never been great with them anyway. He’s better with this, with touch, and so he lets his body speak where words fail him.

It’s not the most comfortable position: the wheel digs into his back, and it’s his sore leg that gets shoved up against the door, but Michael’s hands slide around his waist, pulling him closer, holding him firm, and it’s all Alex needs. He lets his fingers slide into beloved curls and presses their mouths together.

The few kisses they’ve shared since finding each other again have been either stolen amidst fear, or sweet, lingering expressions of tenderness and care. This is a reunion and a vow, heated and heavy. It’s refamiliarizing themselves with something feared lost to them both. It’s Alex’s claim on Michael’s heart and the surrender of his own, and it’s more precious to both of them than oxygen.

Michael opens for him with the same ease he’s opened his heart, the hands sliding under Alex’s hoodie seeking warmth and stability and his head tipping back. Alex has the height and the control and he uses both to take Michael apart, to assure him with lips and hands that he recognizes the gift he’s been given and intends to treasure it as it should be treasured.

When they part, it’s with their foreheads touching, Alex’s hands still in Michael’s hair and Michael’s pressed flat against his back.

“I don’t get it,” Michael breathes, his eyes closed even as he chases Alex’s lips with his own.

Alex lets himself get caught, then pulls back just a fraction. “What?” he asks, preparing himself to find whatever words Michael needs.

“You know what I am,” Michael says, sounding young and afraid in ways that have no place between them. Alex holds him tighter, thinking to create a barrier between Michael and the world with his own body. “I’m an alien, Alex,” he says, a wholly different confession to that first, painful time. “How are you not scared of me?”

How does he explain that? How does he tell Michael that he _is_ afraid - terrified actually - of what Michael makes him feel? How do you even start to untangle love from fear when that love is the only reason fear exists?

“You’re an alien,” he says, drawing his palms down to cup Michael’s cheeks. “And yeah, it’s as scary as it is exciting, knowing for certain that we’re not alone in the universe.” Michael presses a kiss to the inside of his palm. “But what’s that poem? I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night. If you’re my touchstone for extraterrestrial life… how can I possibly be afraid?”

It’s his turn to kiss the hand that cups his cheek. His turn to be the one to witness the birth of wonder and joy in the eyes of the one he loves most.

“Let's go home,” Michael says. “I need to - let me take care of you?”

“Always.”

 


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're rolling into the beginning of the end. There are probably 5-7 chapters or so left to go. Thank you so much for coming on this ridiculous angst train with me!

Continuing the theme of the universe refusing to give Michael time to catch up with all the shit that’s going on, the twenty four hour grace period Valenti has bought them unfolds in an absolute clusterfuck of emotions that culminates in Alex back in _Captain Manes_ mode and their intrepid group of aliens and associated humans gathered in a secret military bunker planning their next move.

Michael’s slept for twelve hours straight, showered, shaved, and sobbed like an infant into his pillow because _home_ and _safe_ and _together_ are all things he never expected to get back. Alex follows him everywhere, those wide, soulful eyes of his a constant companion to Michael’s every move, and he wears a look on his face that promises extreme and brutal murder to anyone who trespasses on their peace. 

Michael won’t lie. He knows, objectively, that Alex is fucking badass. The guy’s seen combat more times than Michael can stomach thinking about. He’s brave and competent and confident and all the things someone with the word ‘Captain’ in front of their name should be. Michael _knows_ this.

It’s just… everything he associates with Alex, with their relationship, is achingly soft. Alex’s smile and his touch and his love and his stupid fluffy morning hair. It’s really, _really_ hard to associate _his_ Alex with a guy who - if all the things Michael has heard today are true - is capable of kidnapping and torturing his father, shooting his brother _twice_ , bullshitting his way into a top-secret military alien dissecting base and marching around with a bullet in his liver. Especially when he’s currently holding a very irate phone conversation in French while simultaneously field stripping an M11.

And by hard, Michael means quite literally. Not literally, literally, but metaphorically literally. Alex is fucking hot, is what he means.

“Focus, Guerin,” Valenti says, grinning around a mouthful of fries. Michael reaches over and steals a handful, ignoring his indignant squark. So fucking what if Michael is staring at his boyfriend and thinking bad thoughts? It’s that or look at the man who blackmailed him and put him in a fucking tank.

Michael’s pretty sure Jesse Manes hasn’t had a worse few days than he has - what with the aforementioned blackmail, medical experimentation and watching the man he loves bleed to death in his arms - but he doesn’t look like he’s had huge amounts of fun, either. Sure, they’ve fed and watered him, allowed him pee breaks… all things that Michael sure as shit wasn’t going to be given while he was playing alien specimen of the month, but still. He looks like shit.

His clothes are bloody and rank, and while Max has clearly healed him, there are clear signs that Alex didn’t pull any punches when it came to getting what he wanted.

Neither Max nor Isobel will tell him what those punches entailed.

Valenti has insisted on checking him over. Valenti seems to have more morality than the rest of them combined, which is a fucking plot twist and a half. He eyes Alex with a mix of disappointment, sadness, and concern, and it’s halfway between Michael’s alarm blaring ‘ _must protect Alex at all times_ ’ and Max and Isobel’s ‘ _yeah, we’re gonna let the professional do his shit_ ’.

Michael’s back to finding Alex really, really fucking attractive right now.

It’s that -let his dick think for him - or it’s face up to the reality that some part of Alex has never, maybe _will_ never, come back from war. Michael won’t judge, he can’t. There’s too much anger in his soul for him to ever pass judgment. And hell, he prays to god he never finds himself on the flip side of the coin, because he knows he’ll set the world on fire if anyone ever tries to take Alex away from him. He’s covered up three murders. He’s taken the blame for other people’s crimes, then gone out and committed some of his own.

He’s not a fucking saint. He’s about as far from a saint as you can get.

But he’s starting to realize that, out of his little family - Max and Isobel and Alex - he’s the only person to not actually have killed someone. Max never talks about that day in the desert. Isobel can’t talk about Rosa and the other girls. Both incidents have festered like wounds between them, poisoning all the things that go unspoken.

The things Alex has done, he’s done for Michael. When this is done, Michael has every intention of ensuring they talk about them. He won’t make the same mistakes.

He knows Alex, and that softness Michael cherishes in him isn’t a softness of spirit but of soul.

Torturing Jesse Manes - his _father_ \- is going to cost him far more than he realizes.

Michael can’t help it. He looks across the space to the man who embodies his nightmares and wishes he’d killed him all those years ago. How much pain might he've spared them all if he'd made that call?

“I’m gonna have to head into the station,” Max says, running a tired hand over his face. He’s called in sick for the past few days and looks wrecked enough to pull it off. “There’s only so long I can go without showing my face before someone comes to check on me.”

“Noah’s gonna be back from Austin tonight,” Isobel adds, nervously nibbling on the end of one of Kyle’s fries.

“Go,” Alex says, hanging up his phone and sliding his weapon into a holster on his thigh. “I’ll handle things here.”

Max is already shaking his head. “This is our mess, man. We can’t leave you to fix everything for us.”

“You guys have done nothing but try and live your lives in peace,” Alex says firmly, because Alex doesn't fucking know about Rosa. He doesn't know that the three of them aren't half as innocent as he thinks them to be. And Michael can never tell him. “This,” he indicates the bunker, “isn’t your mess, it’s mine.” His gaze falls on his father, hard and blank.

“What are you going to do? Surely someone’s noticed him missing by now?” Isobel asks.

“They might’ve done,” Alex makes his way around from the desk he’s been sat at to take a position directly in front of his father, “if he’d not been filing his paperwork on time.”

“Alex, think very carefully before you do this.” Manes sounds as bad as he looks.

“Six months,” Alex growls. “I’ve spent six months trying to decide how to deal with you, and I finally figured it out. I was gonna have you transferred. Get the program shut down, burn everything. But that’s not how we do things in our family, is it? We keep it in house. It’s why Flint’s not filed a report. This operation isn’t classified, it’s unauthorized.”

“Wait,” Isobel frowns, “what does that even mean?”

“It means the Pentagon hasn’t approved the allocation of resources that Project Shepard are currently using,” Alex says, frowning. He blinks rapidly, and Michael knows he’s made a jump from A to B and landed somewhere around Y. “You’re piggybacking off another project, aren’t you? Holy shit, dad, what have you done?”

“What I had to,” Manes says coldly. “This isn’t going to end well for you, son. Do you think you can brush all this under the rug? You think no one knows I’m here?”

Well, if that's not ominous as fuck...

Alex shoves himself away and snatches his phone. “I need to make some calls,” he says, a furrow between his brows growing by the second.

Michael follows. “Tell me what to do,” he says, hating how helpless he feels. When he looks back at his siblings it’s all he can do not to grab them both and drive them as far away from Manes as he can.

How are they going to deal with this? They can’t just kill Manes, as tempting as it is. They’ll be too many questions. Then there’s Alex’s brother. The soldiers and doctors at the facility where Michael was held.

There’s the talk of ‘others’. Other facilities. Other aliens.

It’s too much. Too much for them to handle alone. Having Alex on the inside is one thing, but too many people know where his loyalties rest for him to ever be truly effective at using the position to dismantle the whole program.

He’s surprised then when Alex takes his hand and draws him close. “Do you trust me?” he asks. Michael knows it’s not a throwaway question. It might be the most important thing Alex has ever asked him.

Does he?

“I trust you.” No hesitation. No second guessing.

Still, Alex doesn’t relent. “Do you trust me to keep all of you safe?”

“I trust you, Alex,” Michael squeezes his hand tightly. When he looks back at Max and Isobel, they share a silent conversation in one glance and then nod their heads in agreement.

Alex sighs. Relief doesn’t wash the tension from his eyes, but it doesn’t add to it, either.

“Then I need to make some calls.”


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I attempt to start tying all these random threads together!

Alex spends the next six hours on and off the phone. Max, Isobel, and Valenti leave shortly after he shuts himself away in the bunker’s private office, leaving Michael to stand guard over his father.

Michael has no idea how Max managed to watch the fucker for as long as he did: twenty minutes of seething manipulation and Michael’s breaking out the duct tape.

He’s not interested in a damn word Jesse Manes has to say. Not when each one has always been designed to drive a wedge between him and Alex. He’s done falling for that shit.

Still, whatever Alex is doing isn’t fast, and Micheal’s always been easily bored. Since he’s now one hundred percent on board and in the loop, he takes advantage of the time to really dig into the work Alex has been doing.

The map he shelves for processing at a later date. When he says to Alex that he has no plan of leaving him behind, he means every word. Alex is _home_ , he’s the future.

But Michael would be lying to himself if he doesn’t admit just how hopeful he is. He has a point of origin. He has a birthplace, and now, when he’s ready, he can find it. He’s always looked at the stars and known that somewhere up there is one he can call his own; now he knows exactly which one.

He has that, and when this is done, he’s driving out into the desert with Max and Isobel and showing them where they came from.

And maybe by that point, he’ll be able to give them more.

The map is groundbreaking, but it’s Alex’s efforts to translate the symbols from the crash that truly upends Michael’s world.

Alex has access to systems and resources that Michael can only dream of, and while he probably thinks he’s made little progress, Michael knows differently.

The text Alex has been trying to decipher? Micahel can  _read_ it.

Or, he can understand it, at least. Some part of him, fifty years silent and twenty years confused, _knows_. The pieces slot together in Michael’s head, human and alien, and in the pages and pages of Alex’s meticulous notes, the equations become music and calms the chaos in Michael’s head.

Reaching out a tentative hand to touch the elegant script, he’s struck by a time that hand was small and childlike, a woman’s delicate fingers reaching over his own and helping him trace a symbol on a surface that shimmers like water.

_Family_. That one means family.

“Guerin? Michael?” He’s no idea how long Alex has been calling his name. He’s read every page, poured over every theory Alex has trialed and discarded, and maybe this is what he’s been missing. Max has always been so adamant that they shouldn’t ask questions and Michael has spent so many years trying and failing and hating himself for his inability to understand.

Alex has come at the problem with professional dispassion, and no, he’s not translated or understood, but he’s given Michael a new angle from which to assess the data. It’s… it’s _everything_.

A tentative hand curls over his shoulder, drawing him around to face Alex, who looks so concerned, so troubled by the idea of Michael in any kind of pain.

Michael surges forwards and pulls Alex into a crushing embrace. Instantly Alex’s hands are curling protectively around him, one across his shoulders, the other the back of his neck.

“Michael?” he asks again, pushing back far enough to see Michael’s face without having to let him out of his arms. “What’s wrong?” he reaches up to absently brush the curls out of Michael’s face.

Every time. Every damn time he thinks he can’t possibly be more in love…

“I- I-‘“ he gestures at the symbols and understanding dawns on Alex’s face.

“You can read them?” Michael nods. “That’s amazing, Michael.”

“I don’t know if it’s reading, or remembering, but… Alex…. Alex, I think I had a mom.” His voice breaks on that one precious word.

'Mother' is such a complicated construct for him. Sure, he probably has one, but then he hatched out of a pod. For all he knows he’s no different than a test tube baby. But… but there was _someone_. Someone held his hand as a child. Someone cared for him. Someone loved him.

“You don’t have any memories from before?” Alex asks, looking over Michael’s shoulder at his own work and frowning in a way that makes it clear he has no idea what he’s done.

Michael shakes his head. “I figured they faded. I was in that pod for fifty years. But… Alex, if I have-“

“A family,” Alex finishes, awash with kindness and hope. He wants this for Michael almost as much as Michael wants it for himself, and that, he thinks wildly, is the kind of quiet love that sneaks under the radar and warms them both from the inside out.

A family. Alex and Max and Isobel, yes, but parents. Cousins. Aunts. Uncles. Grandparents. A family. A lineage. A history. “Yeah.”

Alex draws him back in close and presses a kiss to the top of Michael’s brow. “Then we’ll find them together.”

Michael’s starting to think that there’s nothing he and Alex can’t achieve if they work together. They round each other out: Michael runs hot and Alex hides in the cold. Alex cools his rage and redirects his impulsiveness; Michael melts blockades of ice and draws Alex back into the world. They fit together like something cosmic, crafted among the stars and tempered by the fires of orbital entry.

“Together,” Michael agrees, squeezing Alex tightly one last time before returning to those newly familiar symbols, excitement bubbling in his heart.

 

* * *

 

It’s another four hours before anything changes.

Alex is calmly cleaning his service weapon for what feels like the tenth time when his phone vibrates on the table. Michael looks up from the rabbit hole of data he’s lost himself down and glances across the room.

“It’s time,” Alex says grimly. He resembles the weapon and holsters it before standing.

“You’ve still not told me what’s happening,” Michael says, reading something in the tightness of Alex’s spine that twists him up inside.

“I wasn’t sure it was going to work until now,” Alex admits, walking around the table until he’s toe to toe with Michael and can take his hand. “Remember you said you trust me?”

Oh, Michael doesn’t like that at all. “Yeah…” he says warily.

Alex nods, a wry little smile twisting his mouth. “In five minutes, this whole site is going to be swimming in MPs-“

“How do Military Police being here make any of this better?” Michael demands, pulling his hand from Alex’s to cross his arms over his chest.

_This_ is his genius plan? Fuck that, Michael’s bashing him on the head and driving them to fucking Argentina.

Alex places his hands on Michael’s elbows instead. “This whole operation is unauthorized, but there’s no way to contain the threat my father and brother pose without going through the official channels. So, the MPs are gonna come in here, and arrest him. And me. And when they ask you why you’re here, you’re going to tell them the truth.”

Michael stares at him, horrified. How many fucking head injuries has he had now? He’s lost his mind…

“No, no,” Alex rushes to reassure him, “I know how it sounds. This is the ‘trust me’ part. They’re going to ask you what he did to you, and you’re gonna tell them everything. _Everything_ , Michael. What happened in the toolshed, what happened after. You’re gonna tell them how he kidnapped and tortured you.”

“And what, leave out the alien part?” Michael snorts, glaring at Jesse Manes’s back from across the room.

Alex shakes his head. “No. Well, kinda. They’re going to ask why he did it, and you’re going to say that it’s because he _thinks_ you’re an alien. Don’t actually admit to that part.”

“You want me to tell the truth,” Michael says flatly.

“Ninety-five percent of the truth,” Alex nods. “Look, aliens are real. Project Shepard was the government’s response to learning of your existence. Nothing’s going to change that. We can’t convince them something doesn’t exist when they know for a fact that it does. What we _can_ do is control the narrative. There’s nothing on file that proves you’re anything other than human.”

“And if they decide to fucking test me?” Michael knows Alex isn’t about to put him in danger, not after working so hard to rescue him, but he’s failing to see the angle he’s working.

“They won’t,” Alex promises, “get the chance. Protocol dictates we’re taken to the nearest site with Red Threat Level Clearance - that’s RAFB. Noah will meet you there.”

“You told _Noah_?” Michael demands, back to thinking Alex's lost his damn mind.

Alex shakes his head and looks at the door. “He doesn’t know you’re actually an alien. He knows everything else. I’ve briefed him.” He reaches up and cups Michael’s cheeks in his palms. “You have to tell them everything. _Everything_.” He reaches to touch Michael’s scarred left hand.

It’s not enough. Who the hell is going to listen to Michael over Master Sargent Jesse Fucking Manes? “Yeah? What’s he gonna tell them? It’s our word versus his, and you said it yourself: they know I exist! Why the fuck would they believe me?”

“That’s where I need you to trust me,” Alex says, the darkness in his eyes piercing Michael’s soul. “Promise me you’ll trust me.”

He will. He _does_. But… fuck, actually delivering on that trust is terrifying.

“I promise,” he says, praying to every god in existence that he doesn’t come to regret it.

He knows Alex won’t let them hurt him.

He’s terrified of what he’s going to do to ensure it.

Sagging with relief, Alex presses the lightest kiss to Michael’s lips. “It’s gonna be okay. I promise.”

The bunker door bursts open.

He’s surprised when Alex doesn’t immediately move to put distance between them. If anything, he moves even closer, his arm around Michael sheltering and fiercely protective.

It costs everything Michael has not to flinch. The last time he was around any number of men in those uniforms… Alex kisses his forehead again, then steps away as three MPs make a direct line to Jesse Manes.

“Captain Manes?” It’s Alex they address first. Two of them, each stopping and saluting Alex before speaking.

Michael blinks, then realizes that Alex actually outranks his father.

There’s a small spark of hope that flares in his chest when Alex is treated with respect, one that threatens to die when a final figure enters the bunker.

Backlit by streaming daylight, Michael can’t see his face at first, but it’s clear he’s the one with authority. He's the one they need to convince.

Then… then he speaks, and that spark explodes. He knows that fucking voice. 

“When I told you to call me,” Colonel Nichols says wryly, “this wasn’t really what I had in mind.”

 


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow this chapter has been the most complicated to write of the whole damn story. Go figure!

Being handcuffed to a table in the middle of an interrogation room isn’t Alex’s favorite thing, especially not when he’s then left alone for five and a half hours.

He knows they’re talking to Michael first. He knows Noah is with him, hopefully reigning in his recklessness. All Michael has to do is not lose his temper and not levitate furniture and it should be enough. Alex has already done the heavy lifting when it comes to deflecting any blame or responsibility from his shoulders. He just has to not fuck that up and let Alex handle the rest.

Jesse Manes might have connections. He might have people high up willing to help him pull strings.

So does Alex.

And Alex, unlike his father, has actually moved in circles outside of ‘secret alien hunters’ during his service. He’s got skills that are a hell of a lot more useful to a hell of a lot more people. The Colonel was his first call, but he’s by no means been the last.

Still, Nichols a welcome sight as he enters the interrogation room, two MPs on his tail.

They skip the introductions and jump straight to reminding Alex of what rights he has.

Zero, is the sum of it. He’s not entitled to legal representation. If they decide they have enough evidence of wrong-doing, he’s not entitled to a trial.

If this fails, he’s going to vanish into a dark hole and never come out again.

Alex acknowledges it all calmly. “I understand,” he says. They don’t ask for more than that. His security clearance is high enough that they don’t have to labor the point.

“Start at the beginning,” Nichols prompts.

So he does. The very beginning.

Alex is self-aware enough to know he's doing the one thing he's always hated most about his father. The best lies are built on degrees of truth, and there's only a single fraction of dishonesty in what he's doing.

The one inescapable deadly truth of Michael’s identity is carefully buried, and it will work because the other truths he's telling are driving a nail into the exposed nerves of the man sat opposite him.

Alex trusts Nichols with his life. He always has.

But he doesn't trust anyone or anything with Michael’s.

He's never set out to manipulate anyone the way he is now. When it's done, he's never going to be able to look at himself in the mirror again. That's the cost. His price to pay.

He'll do so unflinchingly.

Alex is under no illusion that Blackburn and Nichols haven't talked about his situation. Nichols has woken Alex from one too many nightmares and seen him respond to certain things with too much wildness in his eyes to ever be completely ignorant of Alex’s past, and Blackburn knows more than anyone. Neither are men prone to breaking confidences, but Blackburn has a temper and the Colonel is bullheaded and in the wake of their unit being disbanded he'll put money on there being at least one alcohol-fuelled screaming match between them.

Nichols has sworn up and down to Alex he doesn't care that he's gay, and Alex is willing to take that much on trust at this point. He doesn't have much choice.

What he's counting on, what everything hinges around, is the fact that no matter how Nichols might feel about Alex personally, he's not going to respond well to anyone fucking with what's ‘ _his_ ’.

Disbanded or not, Alex is Nichols’s XO, and they're a formidably tight ranked group of assholes. Blackburn drives them all crazy, Carlos is a danger to pretty much everyone around him and Greengrass was a grade A dick. Nichols himself makes Michael seem reasonable and biddable in comparison.

And if _anyone_ threatens any of them, Alex will fucking destroy them. That's how they work. How they probably always will, even when death starts to separate them.

And so, handcuffed to the table between two MPs and his CO, Alex does something he's sworn never to do.

He tells them everything.

He starts with the first time his father beat him for being gay, and he works through a lifelong catalog of violence and terror. He doesn't pull his punches. He doesn't sugarcoat the facts for fear of upsetting anyone. Hell, upsetting them is the whole point.

He details all of the things that makes Jesse Manes a monster in the eyes of a teenage boy and watches recognition spark in Nichols’s otherwise expressionless face as he associates acts of unprovoked violence to the scars Alex still wears.

And when he feels hollow and sick, he tells them about Michael.

Michael, the innocent boy who tried to save Alex’s life.

Michael’s mangled hand becomes a major topic of conversation, and when they ask why he never went to the hospital, Alex doesn’t even have to lie. “He was uninsured and had run away from his foster home. My father was friends with the Sherif, he was scared.”

Then he tells them what happened after. His father’s punishment.

He describes in painstaking detail things he’s never told anyone, not even Blackburn, finding a spot on the wall to the left of Nichols’s head and speaking to it directly. He can’t make eye contact - he won’t make eye contact. He treats it the same way he treats any debriefing: impersonal, carefully descriptive, brutally honest.

The MPs whisper quietly together. Nichols’s knuckles blanch as he draws them into a fist.

This is all going on file. On his record. Anyone with high enough clearance will be able to access it and use it against him. Alex has spent so long living one lie or another that he’s found comfort in the wilderness of mirrors, the truth carefully cataloged and controlled. This level of honesty goes against every instinct he has bar the one - protect Michael.

By the time he finishes describing the lead up to his enlistment, he’s exhausted, and he’s only just begun.

“Do you need a break, Captain?” One of the MPs asks.

Alex shakes his head. “No. Thank you.” He’s not surprised by the offer, but he doesn’t trust it either.

They nod and continue. “Tell us about your involvement in Project Shepard.”

Alex is prepared. He’s ready. “Master Sargent Manes recruited me while I was in Germany,” Alex says truthfully.

Nichols speaks for the first time. “This was while you were on convalescence following injuries obtained on duty?” he prompts.

“Yes, sir,” Alex agrees. “The Master Sargent came into my hospital room in the middle of the night. He told me I was in danger and explained our family’s involvement with Project Shepard.”

“This is when he told you that Mr. Guerin was an alien?”

“Michael had confronted him when he learned of my injuries,” Alex says. “And again when they met in Landshtul. He attempted to stop Michael from seeing me. Lieutenant Blackburn knew some of my relationship with the Master Sargent and alerted the hospital that I would be refusing him access. I believe that is why he was forced to use clandestine means to enter my room.”

“Following that, Master Sargent Manes endeavored to use his influence to disband Recon 9 and have you transferred to a secure facility?” Nichols prompts.

“I couldn’t say if he was responsible for disbanding the unit,” Alex says truthfully, “but he did oversee my transfer, yes.”

“We’ve already established Master Sargent Manes’s involvement in the disbanding of Recon 9,” one of the MPs says, making a note in his file. “This facility, were you aware of its purpose?”

“I believed it was a medical unit,” Alex says.

“You didn’t question why you weren’t transferred to an MATC?” the second MP asks him.

“No sir,” Alex says. Then adds, “It took the doctors a while to establish the most suitable combination of drugs to prescribe me. I don’t remember much from the first month, and then I was focused on my rehabilitation.”

“And while you were there, did you have means of communicating with the outside world?”

“I didn’t get any mail,” Alex says, “and I had no computer access. There were telephones in the rec center, but I was usually under supervision.”

“Did you have any visitors?”

“No, sir.”

“Captain Manes, do you know where the facility was located?”

“I could make an educated guess,” Alex admits. “Based on the weather and scenery I assumed Texas.”

“And when you were cleared for limited duty and transferred, do you remember leaving the facility?” The MPs are taking it in turns to ask the questions now, and the pace has almost doubled. They’re digging to the core of events, and Alex is still carefully laying the groundwork.

“No sir,” he says. “I was told I fell asleep before transportation left site. I woke shortly before arriving in Roswell.” That much is true. By that point, his father was convinced Alex was on board with his alien agenda and felt no need to hide the nature and location of what Alex assumed at the time was a black site.

It’s only through his efforts to build a case against his father that he’s put two and two together and come out with the actuality.

“Do you think I was drugged?” he asks, frowning.

Nichols answers. Nichols has been beyond pissed at Alex’s six-month disappearance. “We believe you were at a Project Shepard facility,” he says grimly. “We believe that Master Sargent Manes abused his authority as Project Chief to kidnap you.” Nichols has never been one to mince his words, and for once it works in Alex’s favor. 

He blinks rapidly. “That…” he lets himself trail off.

They ask again if he needs a break. Again, he refuses.

They move on. To Alex’s work for Project Shepard and his attempts to translate symbols found at the 47 crash. They don’t know about the map. Someone as smart as Michael might look at the data and figure it out, but Alex isn’t about to make it easy for anyone.

“This is when Master Sargent Manes asked you to start a romantic relationship with Mr. Guerin in order to gather intelligence?” Nichols is the one to ask. Nichols is the one most enraged by the hypocrisy, and he’s the one most appalled at the idea of Alex being forced to sleep with someone for the sake of a mission. He’s a hardass, and he’s ruthless, but he has a code.

“Michael and I were already together,” Alex explains, “but I determined it best to allow the pretense. I hoped it would buy me time.”

“To do what, Captain?” The MPs ask.

“The Master Sargent was convinced that Michael Guerin was an alien, and he repeatedly violated the constitutional rights of a legal citizen to further an agenda I believed to be fabricated out of bigotry and a personal vendetta that spans nearly a decade. I hoped I would be able to gather proof that he was misusing military resources to do this, and planned to report him to the Pentagon.”

“Did you tell Mr. Guerin this?”

“That the man who had maimed him as a teenager and threatened to murder him twice was on a zealous crusade and thought he was an extraterrestrial who crash-landed on Earth seventy years before he was born?” he lets confusion and disbelief color his voice and is rewarded by a small snort of laughter as they recognize the ridiculousness of the statement. They don't know about the pods, and that's the one saving grace they have. Michael is, to the best of their knowledge, far too young to be involved. “No sir, I did not.”

They confab together quietly while Alex meets Nichol’s eyes across the desk. His CO gives him the briefest nod of encouragement.

“Talk us through the last week, Captain.”

Here’s where it gets dicey.

Alex gives them everything but the one truth.

He omits the confrontation he and Michael shared at the cabin and goes directly to his abduction. The timeline is the hardest thing to alter, but he manages it, leaving out his visit to Max and Isobel and moving directly to his showdown with his father.

“Why did you not call it in then?” they ask.

And here is where he’s trusting Nichols. Here is where the groundwork he’s laid and the horrors he’s shared either pay off, or they don’t. “I wasn’t thinking clearly,” he admits. “After everything, after all the things he’s threatened to do to Michael… I acted rashly, and in direct violation of my training and experience as an Officer. I tracked Michael to the facility he was being held in and I was afraid for his life.”

“We have no record of this facility,” Nichols says. “As we have no record of the one you were held in.”

“I can provide you with location details,” Alex says. They write that down, too.

He finishes describing his rescue of Michael, omitting minor details like the fact he got shot and nearly died in the process.

“That’s when I called you, Colonel. There was no chain of command to follow. I didn’t know what else to do. I know I should’ve sought assistance sooner. I accept the consequences of my actions, and only ask that reparations are made to Mr. Guerin for his ordeal.”

“We have spoken to Mr. Guerin,” Nichols says, the very first smile of the conversation twitching on his face. “He’s rather adamant that you’re a hero, that you saved his life, and Master Sargent Manes is - I believe the phrase he used was ‘psychotic piece of shit.”

“I couldn’t let my father hurt him just because he hates me,” Alex says, that one truth cracking in his voice. It’s the first time he’s directly acknowledged his relationship to the man, and for some insane reason, he suddenly has to blink back tears.

A hand reaches out to unfasten the cuffs around his wrists, and then squeezes his arm encouragingly, an awkward, faulting display of compassion.

It’s not actually Nichols that does it, but one of the MPs. “We will have more questions, Captain,” he says. “But I think we’re done for now. Thank you for your honesty.”

Alex swallows and nods. He knows that just because they’re done for now he’s by no means out of the woods.

“Is Michael, I mean, is Mr. Guerin…”

“Mr. Guerin left before we began our interview,” Nichols says. “This might be the first time I’ve had to escort someone we’ve brought in for questioning _off_ the property. He’d still be in the hallway cursing up a storm given half the chance.”

Alex has erased everything Project Shepard officially had on him, and with Noah on hand, they have no cause or justification to keep him. Not without making more headaches for themselves.

Alex, they can keep indefinitely.

He closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath.

Michael’s out. He’s safe, for now at least. It’s a start.

The rest… the rest will come. Alex is patient. He always has been.

 


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter counts as part one of a three-staged 'holy shit Alex needs a hug' process! 
> 
> Four more parts to go!

“Blackburn, I swear to fucking god-“ Michael snatches the sandwich being waved under his nose and storms out onto the porch like the miserable, ungrateful fucker he is.

He's not been given a second’s peace since his release. Noah, who holds the official title of Best Brother-in-Law Ever, drives him back to the cabin and leaves him in the dubious care of Blackburn and Carlos. Another of Alex’s plans, apparently. Alex has lots of plans. Lots of plans, most of which he’s felt no need to share with Michael.

Calling the fucking MPs. Getting himself arrested. Getting Michael fucking arrested. Getting Noah involved.

Michael spends half a day being asked the same questions in several different ways, Noah’s ability to out-bullshit everyone a carefully constructed barrier keeping Michael from losing his shit and leveling the whole building.

He gets a release the same day. Three days after that, Noah turns up at the cabin with a check for two hundred grand; an unofficial apology for his troubles. It’s not an admission of guilt, that’s never going to happen. It’s hush money, and it feels filthy in his hands. Blackburn is the one to point out that refusing it makes him look a whole lot more suspicious than taking it.

It’s at the bottom of his sock drawer. Six months ago he didn’t have a sock drawer. He hasn’t got a fucking clue what to do with two hundred grand.

He wonders if Alex knows about it. If that, along with everything else, is another one of his plans.

Michael’d fucking ask him, if not for the fact that he’s been in custody for _eleven fucking days_. Having two of the three remaining members of Alex’s unit camping on their couch somehow becomes the only thing keeping him sane. They're in daily communication with Nichols and can provide updates Michael would never have access to without them. Mostly those updates tell them nothing more than the fact that Alex is okay and that things are still being processed, but even those scraps are better than nothing.

Max and Isobel make daily visits out to the cabin, as does Valenti, which leads to the revelation that Alex has confided some of the conflicts with his former best friend to Blackburn. Michael has never expected to be the one defending Valenti from anything or anyone, but his arrival with pizza two days after Alex’s arrest ends with Michael patiently - _patiently, ha!_ \- having to talk Blackburn out of killing him with a pizza cutter. No one looks more bewildered by the turn of events than Valenti, who wisely keeps his distance until Michael finds a non-alien way of explaining that the doctor saved Alex’s life. Blackburn then immediately decides Valenti is ‘good people’ and they share a pepperoni pizza like long lost brothers. Managing Blackburn is fucking exhausting, and Michael has no idea how Alex manages it.

Nine days later and he's still trying to establish what orders Alex has given them. They hang out, watch Netflix, fix various things around the cabin that need fixing, start the process of landscaping the fucking yard, buy groceries, bully Michael into three square meals a day... and not once does Michael get the impression that they ever let their guard down. As much as they are there to stop Michael from self-destructing from worry, it's clear they are also there to protect him. They don’t know _what_ he really needs protecting from, and it leads to more than one screaming argument and a half dozen moments when he legitimately fears Carlos is going to set the cabin on fire.

The three of them go quietly and not so quietly crazy, then eat cereal together the next morning.

It’s fucking surreal, but - and Michael will never admit this to another living soul - there’s something comforting about having them close by. He doesn’t know them well enough to worry about upsetting them when he’s angry, and they’re equally as blunt about calling him on his shit. And, for all that all three of them seem to hoard grudges, they never take it personally when Michael loses his shit.

They’re assholes, and Michael gets why Alex loves them.

Still, he doesn’t _actually_ need feeding every two hours. He’s not a fucking infant, no matter what Blackburn might think.

He eats it because the first time Blackburn tried to feed him he shut down all of Michael’s protests with the words ‘ _Alex trusts us to look after your stupid fucking ass_ ’.

He’s going crazy. He’s no idea how Alex didn’t lose his mind when Michael gave himself over to Jesse Manes.

Maybe he did? Maybe that’s why all this is happening.

Who the fuck is he kidding? This is happening because of Michael. Because of his family, and the crash, and because fate is a sadistic fucking bitch.

Eleven days without Alex feels like a lifetime. It feels like the ache in his chest - the hook in his heart that catches on his ribcage whenever he breathes - will never leave him.

So it takes him longer than it should to realize that the car driving towards the cabin doesn’t belong to Max, or Isobel, or Valenti.

It's Nichols, who climbs out of the vehicle a few seconds after pulling to a stop.

Alex follows a second later.

Michael… Michael stands on the porch like the fucking idiot he is, and stares.

That’s Alex. Here. _Home_.

He seems smaller somehow, burdened, and though his eyes are bright when they return Michael’s blossoming relief, there’s something lurking in their depths. He smiles when Michael smiles, and he moves instantly into the embrace offered, but something is different. Something has changed.

‘It’s done,” Alex says softly, reaching for a lifeline that Michael is quick to throw him. “You’re safe.”

The porch step gives him extra heigh, and he uses it to tuck Alex tightly into his arms, a hand curled protectively around the back of his neck. There’s no real tension in his body, no stiffness suggestive of pain, no aura of panic or fear. If anything. he feels quiet; a moment after a battle when the world is silent, adrenaline has faded, and the grief has yet to hit.

He makes no move to escape Michael’s arms, and Michael is equally unwilling to let him leave. A hand squeezes his shoulder as Blackburn passes him on the porch, his dark eyes far more serious and troubled than Michael can ever recall seeing. “ _Tomorrow_ ,” he mouths, glancing at Alex. Michael nods. He’s more afraid of Alex’s silence now than he has been of his coldness. He knows what Blackburn and Carlos mean to Alex, and what he means to them; his lack of acknowledgment sits uncomfortably out of place in the world they have created.

What’s more surprising than Alex ignoring them, is the fact that they let him. They don’t actually make any attempt to speak to him, or engage in any way. Maybe that in itself shows a familiarity with Alex that Michael, however much he might love Alex, simply lacks.

They leave with the Colonel, satisfied that whatever Alex has done removes the need for them to stand guard. Michael watches their vehicle drive away until it becomes nothing more than a spec on the horizon, and still, Alex hasn’t moved. He’s breathing calmly and evenly, his eyes closed, his cheek against Michael’s chest.

It’s getting colder, and while Michael is content to stay there as long as Alex needs, after ten minutes he can feel the raised hairs on the back of Alex’s neck.

“You good to come inside, sweetheart?” He thinks of the cell he spent only a few minutes in while in captivity and wonders what dubious hospitality Alex has been treated to. Maybe tonight’s a night for sleeping on the truck bed again? He can drag the mattress off the bed, load up with blankets…

“Yeah,” Alex says, his voice almost lost into the fabric of Michael’s shirt.

Okay. Okay, that’s good. Michael keeps one arm around his shoulders as he steers them both inside.

Alex’s responsive, and he’s aware of his surroundings. He’s probably not disassociating and doesn’t appear to be having a flashback or an anxiety attack. He simply looks tired.

“You hungry? I can fix something up?” Michael offers, aware of a sharpness to his shoulderblades that’s new. He probably wasn’t able to keep up with his PT the last few weeks, and who the fuck knows if they’ve been feeding him properly.

He shakes his head, his dark eyes flickering around every corner of the cabin. They pause on things that are new, cataloging potential obstacles, potential threats, and something clenches in Michael’s chest, the root cause of Alex’s silent distress starting to become clear.

He’s tired, yes, but it’s a tiredness born of hyper-vigilance. He’s been on edge, engaged in a battle for too long, and his body and mind are in disagreement as to how best to handle it.

His mind is still looking for the next threat, the next fight.

Fortunately for them both, his body wants nothing more than to sink into Michael’s arms and never leave them. That, he can work with.

“Come on,” he says, gently tugging Alex to the bedroom. He recalls the tender, achingly careful way Alex undressed him at Isobel’s and returns each touch with one of his own, equally tender, equally careful. It’s an excuse to get Alex out of his uniform and into something more comfortable, but it’s also an excuse to check for any injuries.

Max’s handprint has faded from his skin. There’s not a bruise or scrape in sight, and the skin around his stump, so easily swollen, discolored and sore, is smooth and cool to the touch. Freed from both uniform and prosthetic, Michael helps him into a pair of his own sweatpants and t-shirt. He’s still wearing Alex’s hoodie and has been dipping in and out of his wardrobe for the past eleven days. He feels calmer, safer, surrounded by Alex’s clothes. He hopes Alex feels the same way wearing Michael’s.

“This is new,” he says, running a thumb down the sharp line of Alex’s jaw.

Alex reaches up to absently run his hand down the facial hair that’s grown out. “I can shave, if you want,” he offers, looking up through thick lashes in a way that might be enticing if not for the genuine uncertainty in his voice.

“Only place you’re going is bed,” Michael says firmly, kicking off his own jeans and helping Alex under the covers. It’s not late enough for either of them to really be thinking about sleep, but he knows how he felt returning to the sanctity of their bed after fearing it lost. Alex held him then, and Michael will hold him now.

He leans back against the pillows and lets Alex curl around him, their fingers entwined over his heart. Alex’s hair is the same velvet softness he remembers, and he settles into the contentment of being able to run his fingers through it. They don’t have Isobel’s massive shower, but they do have a tub. Maybe later, Alex will let Michael wash his hair.

With the covers pulled up high and the bubble of safety around them as reinforced as Michael can make it, he finally works up the nerve to ask the one question that’s been keeping him from sleep all these nights.

“Did they hurt you?” Alex might be missing the cuts and bruises he wore so frequently in their youth, but there’s plenty of ways to hurt someone that don’t leave a mark.

“No,” Alex promises. “They didn’t hurt me.”

“They believed you?” He can guess as much from the sheer fact that Alex is here.

“They believed me,” Alex whispers. “My father’s been arrested. He won’t be a problem. I doubt he’ll live long enough to make it to prison.” Michael’s hand falters in his hair, surprised. “I told Nichols everything,” he admits.

“Everything?” Michael isn’t sure how that leads to Jesse Manes dying unless - “Oh.”

“He’s going to kill him,” Alex says.

 _Good_ , Michael thinks. _I hope he takes his fucking time._ What he says is, “Are you sure? If he’s going to prison-“

“I’d kill him,” Alex shakes his head minutely, the movement buried against Michael’s chest. “If he did those things to him, or Todd, or-“

“You’re family,” Michael says gently. He can feel the conflict radiating from Alex in waves.

“I lied to them,” Alex says brokenly. “I looked Nichols in the eye and I lied to him. To all of them. It was easy.”

“If it was easy, would you be feeling like this?” Michael asks him. When Alex doesn’t answer he has to push down a wave of nausea. “Do you regret it?”

Alex’s fingers tighten around his own, still careful with the twisted, mangled bones. “No!” He pulls Michael’s hand to his lips and punctuates the exclamation with frantic kisses. “Never. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you safe.”

“And that scares you,” Michael understands.

“If there’s no line I won’t cross, how can I say I’m any better than my father?” Alex whispers the words into the quiet safety of their bed and knows Michael will still hold him. They’re beyond that fear. For better and worse, they know each other. Judgement is one thing they’re both free from.

“He’s a monster, Alex, you can’t think you’re anything like him.” Michael wants to haul Alex up, to force eye contact and ensure the words he’s saying are understood, not just heard.

“We have different obsessions,” Alex says, “but the things he’s done in pursuit of them? How’ve I been any different? I tortured him, I shot Flint, I manipulated people who trust me, I looked them in the eye and told them that I believe in the threat posed to mankind by aliens because that’s that they needed to hear - what I needed to say.”

Michael won’t pretend that doesn’t hurt. It’s an irrational hurt - he knows the truth - but it hurts in the same way it hurts that he can never be free with the world about who he is. It doesn’t matter, not when Alex loves and accepts him, but still…

“You did what you had to,” Michael tells him. “You saved my life. You saved my _family_. I will never be able to thank you for that, not if I live for a thousand years.”

“My family is the reason yours were in danger,” Alex shakes his head. “Thanks is the last thing you should be giving me.”

“And mine are maybe the reason your dad lost his fucking mind in the first place,” Michael points out. “You ever think about that? Maybe… maybe we don’t need to quantify, or justify, things between us? Maybe we can just be us.” In an instant, Michael knows what he wants to do. He knows what they _need_ to do. “Your enlistment is up soon, yeah? So let’s do what you said you wanted to. Let’s go to fucking Boston. You can get your Masters, I’ll wow them with my not-alien-alien brain. We’ll get a dog. Or a cat. Or, I don’t know, a fucking iguana or something. We can get away from Roswell. Get away from all of this. Start something new where we’re just us.”

It takes him a second to realize that the trembling in Alex’s shoulders isn’t from excitement or enthusiasm. He’s crying. It’s silent and fraught with a desperation to contain the emotions he’s battling with, but it’s a fight he’s loosing.

“Alex-“ his own eyes burn, his heart incapable of seeing Alex in pain and not responding in kind.

“I want that,” Alex chokes, his fingers slipping from Michael’s so he can wrap his arms more firmly around his waist.

“Then why’re you crying?” He catches a tear on the tip of his finger and wonders why it doesn’t burn him like acid.

“Because they believed me,” Alex shudders.

“I - I don’t understand.”

“They believed everything I told them. But I still broke protocol. I still engaged in an unsanctioned rescue operation instead of going through the proper channels. So-“ he trails off, dampness soaking through Michael’s hoodie.

“So…” he’s here, they let him go. His arms tighten painfully around Alex, suddenly afraid that someone is going to jump from the woodwork and take him away. “They let you go. They… are they giving you a dishonorable discharge?” That’ll screw with him getting into MIT, but it’s not the end of the fucking world. “We don’t have to go to Boston. We can go anywhere. Fuck, let’s head some place tropical. We can get those funky little cocktails with the umbrellas.”

“They’re not kicking me out,” Alex breathes, his tears settling. “They’re promoting me.”

That… isn’t what Michael is expecting. Still. “That’s bad because…”

“Because it’s another six years,” Alex sighs. Six years. Fuck, that’s… _no_. Fuck it. Six years is nothing. It’ll be done before Alex turns thirty five. He can still go to college.

“Are they transferring you? You know I’ll follow you anywhere. I don’t care.”

“No,” Alex says, shaking his head. “I’m not transferring. I’m staying in Roswell. As of this morning, I am now Operations Control for Project Shepard.” He says the words carefully, and then turns himself entirely into Michael’s arms, his face pressed against the damp fabric and his whole body clinging with the fear of a man about to be cut adrift into the ocean.

“Oh.” What the fuck else is he supposed to say to that.

'Oh’ sums it up, and it shines a new light on the exhaustion clinging to Alex’s soul.

It’s not the battle weary fatigue of someone who’s just escaped a firefight.

It’s the jaded horror of someone who knows he’s just about to enter one.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So these last few chapters are the ones I have been most excited about for the entirety of writing this fic. Yeah, angst and hurt and misery can be fun and even cathartic, but this is the stuff I live for! Thank you so much for sticking with me as far as you have!

Neither of them remember to close the shutters the night before so Michael wakes to sunlight streaming into the bedroom, bathing their tiny little island of perfection in a warm golden glow. It paints sunbeams across Alex’s cheekbones and draws highlights in his hair, a masterpiece of curves and colors, shadows and silk. The light touches Alex the way Michael always plans to - as though it’s in love with every inch of him, skin to soul.

In the wake of the year’s revelations, of fear and pain and endless hours of terror and hope alike, Michael is reluctant to tempt fate with a casual invitation, but Alex is sleeping like the dead. It’s a true sign of how exhausted he is that once soothed he drops straight through the light cycles of sleep he usually occupies to something heavy and boneless. Michael’s had only weeks to get used to sleeping with Alex s beside him, almost as long as he’s had to rest in fitful, listless starts. He has Alex back now, and sleeps almost as deeply.

Over and over they have battled to make their way back to one another. Michael has vowed time and again that nothing and no one can pry Alex from the safety of his arms; he’s starting to realize that Alex himself might be his biggest obstacle to overcome.

Never again. Michael’s not about to let aliens or the military or Alex himself tear them apart. If fate wants him, then it’s going to have to take him over Michael’s dead body.

This is it. Them, together now on the same page forever.

Now he’s had some time to think on it, Alex being head of Project Shepard isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s maybe not great, but instead of having to worry that the person taking Jesse Manes’s place might be even more homicidally zealous in hunting down Michael and his kind, Alex can control the whole operation with the same meticulous attention to detail he’s used to turn this whole clusterfuck around in their favor.

With Alex at the helm, they have a chance of containing any threat either to or from alien forces.

It also makes him Flint’s boss. Flint’s boss, and a Major, which means he now outranks everyone in his family. Michael won’t lie and say he’s not finding a spiteful amount of joy in knowing that. It’s been enough knowing Alex shot his brother, but oh how they’re going to hate having to follow his orders.

Michael’s held more than one uncharitable thought of turning the tables on some of the people who made his life hell as a kid. Either with his powers or just that now he’s older and stronger and can throw a mean left hook. Most of those people are long gone now, out of town or in some cases already dead. He’s not going to get the chance to make any of them regret all the times they hurt him, and with everything that’s happened, he’s almost - _almost_ \- made peace with that.

But fuck if he’s not planning on living vicariously through Alex.

Alex has always been - and still is - the smallest of his siblings. Flint is taller, heavier, stronger, and the other two shitheads even more so. Doesn’t matter one fucking bit now, not when Alex has all the leverage he needs to put them in their place.

They’ll make it work. Alex is brilliant and Michael loves him. They can get through this, together, and in six years time, if Alex still wants to go, then they’ll go. Michael will follow him anywhere. Roswell, Washington, fucking Saturn…

It’s still early enough for him to turn and hide from the sun’s loving touch, his hand pressed against the warm skin of Alex’s hip, wandering without control. Maybe, when they both wake up properly, Alex’ll be in the mood for something below the belt… Michael’s already told him he loves him, now he needs to show him. Maybe take him in his mouth, or ride him… something to pry the sweet, breathy little moans from between his lips and chase away the darkness that’s crept into their lives.

He hides a smile against Alex’s arm and drifts off to the thought of Alex surrounding him, body and soul.

 

* * *

 

 

When they wake, there’s absolutely no sexy time, and Michael feels ridiculous for pouting as he watches Alex make his way from the bathroom, freshly showered and already half dressed in his uniform.

His petulance doesn’t hold up in the face of Alex’s morose silence, and it’s easy to see he’s still locked up inside his own head. Sleep has done him a world of good physically, but one night hasn’t made much of a difference anywhere else.

Now he’s shaved, the gauntness of his cheeks stand out darkly under dull eyes, and that alone is enough to pull Michael from the last remnants of warmth still clinging to the sheets. He shucks on his jeans and wanders the kitchen barefoot, turning eggs, bacon, cheese, peppers, and mushrooms into omelets. He pours juice and brews coffee and snags Alex’s arm before he can leave, brushing off claims of ‘ _I’ll be late_ ’ with, “You’re the boss now. Breakfast.”

It’s a good excuse to make sure Alex takes his meds as well. It’s not that he doesn’t take them on purpose, but when he withdraws as much as he is, he barely remembers where he put his phone.

It’s not the mindset he needs to be going into the lion’s den with.

He half expects an argument. Alex isn’t aggressive - his moods are almost always aimed internally, self-flagellation sharpened to a fine point - but he can be fucking difficult when he sets his mind to it, and he’s been known to dig his heels in out of stubbornness alone. It even looks like he’s considering it, but maybe nearly losing this - them - is still fresh in his mind. Some of the shadows ease from his eyes and he gives Michael one of the small almost-smiles that are just as precious as his unguarded grins. It’s a smile that says he’s trying, that he'll meet Michael halfway.

“Thanks.”

Michael, who has no fucking idea how, when or why he’s becomes so fucking domestic, beams with pride. This, he can absolutely get behind. Making breakfast, taking care of someone…

“Meet me at the Crashdown for lunch?” he asks, staying in his seat when Alex belts him with a dishcloth for trying to help with the dishes once they are done.

“I don’t know if I’ll get-“

“Everyone gets a lunch break,” Michael says firmly. “I’ll tell Blackburn you’re not eating. He can turn his neurotic mother hen act on you for once.”

Alex surprises him by laughing, setting down the last of the dishes and turning to face him. “I’ve been on the receiving end of his worry more than once,” he says wryly. “You got it for less than two weeks. Try spending that time in a six by four foxhole.” The idea makes him feel slightly nauseous. “Yeah,” Alex says, “exactly.”

“Still. Lunch? I’ll buy you one of those chocolate malt milkshakes…”

Alex rolls his eyes and drops a kiss to Michael’s cheek on his way to the door. It’s absentminded, instinctual, and Michael almost bursts into tears because yeah, apparently he’s still got some fucking issues.

“Fine,” Alex agrees. “Fourteen hundred hours.”

“Yes, sir, Major Manes!”

Alex shudders. “Christ, that’s gonna take a while to get used to.”

“I think it’s hot,” Michael says, catching the upturn in Alex’s mood and determined to keep it there.

“You think everything’s hot, Guerin,” Alex says fondly. He snags the keys to the car the Colonel left behind the day before and throws a small wave Michael’s way before leaving. “See you in a few hours.”

The door closes with a gentle click and Micheal melts into a puddle of emotion. He reaches up and touches the spot where Alex kissed him, giddy and light in ways he hadn’t even been as a kid.

A few hours. Six and a half, to be exact.

He throws himself from the kitchen chair in search of clothes. Fuck, he’s got a lot of shit to do.

 

* * *

 

 

“Who are you and what have you done with Michael?” Isobel can, above all things, be counted on when the words ‘shopping, help, and Starbucks’ are thrown in her direction. She’s a floral vision in blue and lilac, delicate jewelry adorning her wrists and neck, and a big fuck off rock on her finger.

The rock is the reason he called. One of them, at least.

Okay, he called because one, there’s no one better to call in the particular and very specific crisis he’s undergoing, and two, because of the rock.

Max, he knows, will be less than zero fucking help here, and Michael already owes Noah a few million bottles of tequila.

“Cute, Iz, very funny.” He thinks he’s been doing better at the whole self-care shit, what with being in a relationship and all. Sure, it takes a nosedive when Alex is missing, presumed fucking tortured, but on the whole, Michael uses expensive shit in his hair now and changes his shirt at least once every two days. Alex is hardly high maintenance, but Michael kinda wants to make an effort for him.

Hence a soft white Henley, clean jeans and the boots that aren’t behind held together by duct tape. He feels pretty good, and he knows Alex likes what the jeans do for his ass.

Isobel loops her arm through his. “You look very handsome,” she says, only slightly teasing, “I owe Alex a fruit basket.” That bit isn’t teasing. His cry for help has come off the back of sixteen messages from her asking if she can come over and clean, decorate, cook or ‘feng shui’ their space up. In the past two weeks she’s sent five deliveries of flowers, two enormous cool boxes of produce and a number of catalogs, each with annotations and notes for things that ‘ _will look super cute in the cabin please let me buy you them’._

Now Alex is back Michael expects her efforts to double, especially when she learns he’s now leading Project Shepard in a bid to keep them all safe. She has no idea how to be in someone’s debt and is responding in the only way she knows.

Alex might be a whole lot more patient than Michael is, but he’s also had significantly less experience with Isobel’s specific brand of sisterly affection.

Michael has every intention of chilling the fuck out with some of the stupidly expensive ice cream she’s sent them and watching the fireworks that follow.

“You gonna tell me why you’re in town at a sociable hour, looking like a snack, when you should be at home with your boyfriend?”

“Alex is at work,” Michael says. It’s not his place to tell her about Project Shepard, not yet. He’ll let Alex take the lead on that one.

“What?” She jumps straight into outrage. “They literally just let him go and he’s back on duty already?”

“No rest for the wicked, I guess,” Michael shrugs. In all honesty, it’s probably a good thing. He can keep Alex distracted for a few hours, sure, but if there’d been any significant time between his promotion and the start of the new role he’d just go crazy with stress.

Isobel huffs. “Rude,” she says. “But my question still stands.”

“I need your advice,” Michael says, drawing out the suspense in a way he knows will make her elbow him in the ribs.

She does. Hard. “On?” He just grins, barely able to contain his excitement. “Michael, I swear on the sparkly goo we hatched in,” she hisses quietly, “if you don’t tell me-“

Michael pulls her to a stop outside their destination. It’s a classy storefront. Everything you’d expect it to be, given what’s inside.

She looks at him, then at the store, then lets out a scream that has people on the far side of the street stopping and staring. “You’re not!”

Micheal nods, his smile so wide it hurts in a way he never wants to stop. “Yeah.”

There’s a whole list of ways Isobel might react. The scream, he expects, but in truth, she might follow it with anything from teasing to disapproval. What he’s not expecting is for her to burst into tears.

“I hate you,” she sobs, already pressing the tips of her fingers under her eyes. “This mascara isn’t waterproof.” She belts him lightly in the chest, then presses herself against his side as he pulls her close enough to kiss the top of her head.

“You gonna bitch at me or you gonna help?” he asks, a soft fondness for his sister overflowing to join the well of love he thinks he might be drowning in.

“That depends,” she sniffs.

“On?” He holds the door open for her and wonders if levitation is an alien thing, or if it’s really possible to be this fucking happy.

Isobel rolls her eyes, and Michael can see the wheels in her head already turning. “If you let me be your wedding planner.”

 

 


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made high pitched whale noises while writing most of this chapter, I will not lie!

A firm rap to what is now the door to Alex’s office draws him out of his tunnel vision. If there’s one consistent Alex has encountered since taking over the Project, it’s that _none_ of the systems have seen an upgrade in at least ten years. Alex feels a bit like he’s being expected to hack a satellite with only a Tamagotchi.

Looking up to find Nichols standing in the doorway, he smiles painfully. “Did you get my email?”

“Which one?” Nichols asks, letting himself in and taking a seat at the desk opposite Alex. “The one where you call into question my professional integrity or the one where you demand a five million dollar overhaul of all system processes?”

Alex cringes. Even Michael’s cheerful breakfast and bashfully sweet company at lunch have failed to put Alex in anything resembling a good mood. He’s been in the job five minutes and is already fielding calls from the Pentagon. The NSA has - in the space of six hours - gone from being a box on a very long list of things to be ticked off, to the bane of Alex’s entire life. People are crawling out of the woodwork for updates, seemingly terrified that the Project has been mismanaged under Jesse Manes and looking at Alex to provide their reassurance and salvation.

The only problem Alex has with that is that there’s no cohesive documentation of anything relating to the Project's overarching mission. There are satellite sites across the country - seven of them, apparently - two laboratories, one of which is on site here in Roswell, the other of which is in Wyoming, and five research facilities, including the one he was stationed at after Germany. Each site houses their own research projects, each with personnel, systems, budgets, and complex infrastructures. Alex is going to need to go through each and every one.

He’s got direct approval from the Secretary of Defense, which is a sentence he’s never expected to run through his brain and carte blanche to hire, fire and redistribute personal and resources as he sees fit - so long as he can justify it to Nichols, who then has to justify it to the Pentagon.

The Colonel and Recon 9 are the only reasons any of this has been possible. Alex has experience co-ordinating SpecOps missions and has made a name for himself as being someone to go to when you need shit done, but that doesn’t lend itself to the kind of promotion he’s been given. No, that’s down to the simple fact that by being a spiteful fuck, Jesse Manes inadvertently started a pissing contest between his heavyweight political backers and Nichol’s heavyweight political backers. In true Manes family tradition, one drama has escalated rapidly into something significantly more fucked up than anyone has anticipated.

Now Alex just has to keep the balance tipped in their favor.

“I’d apologize, but-“

“You don’t give a fuck,” Nichols snorts.

“Not really,” Alex admits.

“Knew that’s why I liked you, Manes,” Nichols says. Alex smiles tightly and looks back at the computer. He’s promised Michael he’ll leave no later than six, and this is a marathon, not a sprint. Losing himself in the back hole of all that needs doing will be easy, but he’s vowed not to be that person. He’s finally got the one thing he’s always wanted: he’s not about to neglect Michael because of his job.

Even if Michael is many ways _is_ the job.

Christ, there hasn’t been a report coming out of some of the research sites for months. That’s top of the list. He’ll need to visit them all personally, and he wonders if Michael is up for a few field trips. There’s not much of anything near the closest site, which is a hundred miles north, but some of the others are close enough to major cities that they can maybe take a few days to explode. It’ll kill two birds with one stone: Alex gets to do his job and share relevant alien intel with the actual alien he’s dating, and it will get Michael out of Roswell for a while. Give him a chance to explore a bit.

Nichols tips back on his chair and closes the door to the office. “About that,” he says when Alex doesn’t respond. “We never really talked.”

“About what?” They talked a whole lot when Alex called him and begged for his help. They probably talked more than they have their entire relationship.

There’s a crease between Nichol’s brow that’s been there since ’14. It’s exponentially deeper today, his thick eyebrows drawn tightly into a frown that manages to make him look even broodier than usual. He’s a handsome man in a rough, crudely chiseled kind of way, but he reminds Alex of one too many of his father’s friends - old school and hardline - for him to ever be anyone he's looked at with interest.

“Your dad.” Nichols isn't one to pull his punches and this one hits Alex right in the gut, winding him before he ever gets a chance to throw up his defenses. He flinches, he can’t help it, and Nichol’s eyes narrow.

Alex glares right back. “If this is your way of asking if I’m too broken and traumatized to do my job, kindly go fuck yourself, sir. I stopped being afraid of him when I was eighteen and I’m sure as hell not afraid of you.”

Nichols leans his head back and swears under his breath. “I really should’ve fucking seen it years ago,” he says, his shoulders slumping. “You never made any damn sense: you’re always wanting to please me and fucking mad about it.”

This time Alex doesn’t flinch. He’s let Nichols get one hit, but he sure as hell won’t get a second. “I mean, the shrinks did stamp it on my jacket,” he says with a bitter smile.

“Yeah, most people come out of SERE looking like they’ve seen Hell and are shit scared of going back,” Nichols nods thoughtfully. “You came out and asked for pizza.”

The Military’s Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape training had by no means been a walk in the park, but Jesse Manes took a sadistic amount of pleasure in turning Alex’s weekends into miniature prep-courses.

As a kid, yeah, Alex’d been petrified. As an adult, he’d mostly been really cold and hungry as fuck.

Alex shrugs as if to say ‘ _Well then_ ’, but it leads to a quick sobering of Nichol’s expression. “You need to know that this-“ he points at the desk, at the office, “wasn’t what I wanted. As far as I’m concerned, you’re not medically fit for duty, nor should you be. You’ve been through serious trauma, kid, and the fact that losing half your leg seems to be the least of it fucking sickens me.”

Alex is old enough, rational enough, to know that Nichols is probably coming from a place where he’s trying to look out for Alex - it’s his job, after all.

All Alex hears is ‘ _you're not good enough_ ’ and ‘ _you’re weak_ ’. The words are all spoken in his father’s voice and he supposes six months of constant exposure to his toxic brand of mindfuckery has left a mark.

“Then why did you sign off on it?” he asks, a defensiveness he’s not proud of sneaking into his voice.

“Because I know what you’re like when you’re trying to protect someone,” Nichols says calmly, leaning forward and capturing Alex’s line of focus with an intensity that’s inescapable. “I figured I can either watch you self destruct in the attempt, or help.”

“I don’t know what you-“

Nichols leans back, relaxed now. “Did you know your dad was a fan of sparkly bodypaint?”

Alex feels all the air in the room get sucked into an icy void. “Excuse me?”

“Hmm. Sparkly handprint, kinda pretty. Not what I’d expect from a raging homophobe, but then maybe that’s part of his problem?”

Max’s handprint. He’ll have left one behind when healing the damage Alex did.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fucking stupid, Alex, so fucking stupid._

“I-“

“That is what it was, yes?” Nichols says in that same calm, contained voice. “I mean, I left it out of the report, didn’t see much sense in embarrassing the poor fucker.”

He knows. And he knows Alex knows.

And that’s why. That’s why Alex is here.

He nods wordlessly and Nichols smiles. “Yeah, I figured. You don’t have to worry about him, kid. I'll take care of it.”

He knows, and he’s still…

The invisible threads that have held Alex up for so very long suddenly snap. He sinks down in his chair, his spine soft without the decades of fear calcifying around his body, and puts his head into his hands.

He’s not going to cry. Not here, not in front of Nichols. Michael is the only person he’s able to truly be that vulnerable with, but this… this is as close as he will ever get.

Strong fingers close around his shoulder and squeeze tightly. “Like I said, I’m here to help.” Then, proving that he knows Alex about as well as anyone possibly can, he adds, “I’ll go approve those requisitions for you. You should think about hiring a secretary. And for fuck’s sake, find something to do with Blackburn before he goads Carlos into burning down another barracks.”

That draws Alex immediately out of his downward spiral. Picking up after Blackburn leaves very little time for wallowing. “What do you mean ‘ _another_ ’?” he demands.

“Not my problem, Major,” Nichols says brightly as he gives Alex’s shoulder one last squeeze. “Perks of delegation. I’m on the next flight back to D.C. Try not to level New Mexico with alien tech while I’m gone?”

If there’s ever a way to convey the kind of gratitude Alex has to express, he prays he’s able to do it now. Maybe he even manages. Nichols nods, his expression as soft as it’s ever going to get.

“And tell Guerin that he needs to do whatever he did to Carlos’s car to mine.”

“Yes, sir,” Alex manages to force the words around the lump in his throat.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s just after seven when Alex pulls up to the cabin. He’s well on his way to finalizing a schedule for starting his overhaul and frustration has reluctantly given way to a tiny bud of satisfaction.

“Hey,” he announces, throwing his keys onto their usual hook for safekeeping and with them shedding the armor he wears outside of this space.

There are small clusters of candles lighting the way, leading him to the kitchen where their small table is dressed with a crisp white table cloth. There are a dozen red roses sitting in a vase on the counter, a bright splash of contrast to the pastel garlands Isobel has been sending them for some unfathomable reason.

Alex’s battered iPod pumps out tunes, low and soulful, so Michael has clearly fixed the portable speakers long since thought fucked beyond repair, and there’s a warm, spicy scent of bubbling chili coming from a pan on the stove.

Best of all, there’s Michael. He’d looked like something out of Alex’s teenage fantasies at lunch, his usual grungy cowboy esthetic softened at the edges, romance hand in hand with rough and tumble.

This is… _this is…._

Alex doesn’t have words. He isn’t even aware that Michael owns a suit, certainly not one that looks like it was made just for him. It’s crisp and sleek, matching the curls that have been tamed from wildness into something smooth and somehow equally as attractive.

Alex has spent his entire life in deserts: there’s no reason his mouth should suddenly be so dry. “Hi.” _Smooth, Manes. Real fucking smooth._

“Welcome home,” Michael’s voice is whiskey smooth, sliding down Alex’s spine, silk over glass. It feels like forever since they’ve had sex, intimacy far more tender and profound at the forefront of their needs. Throughout all the days they were separated it wasn’t the fucking that Alex dreamed of, but now they are here, free and safe, he craves Michael’s touch like a man dying of thirst.

He presses his crutch against the wall and closes the space between them. He’s no words to express himself and that seems to be the norm. Neither of them has much in the way of experience when it comes to relationships, but Michael seems to be navigating the communication needed far more easily than Alex. He throws heartrending, earth-shattering statements at Alex as though they are easy, confessions of devotion and desire offered equally as freely.

Alex has never been good with words. They freeze in his chest, stubborn and sticky, and no matter how he wants to write soliloquies in the stars with the love that lives in his heart, he always seems to falter and fumble.

All he has is his body, and he gives it to Michael with wholehearted devotion.

He feels foolish standing there in his uniform while Michael looks like he’s walked out of a catalog, as beautiful and blinding as the sun. He is and always will be the light in the dark places of Alex’s soul, casting rays of warmth and playful hopefulness across the landscapes of his heart that are cold and twisted with scars.

Michael’s there when Alex kisses him, his arms a shelter and salvation, his mouth warm and eager, welcoming as Alex maps familiar contours with his tongue.

‘ _Welcome home_ ’, Michael says.

‘ _I love you_ ,’ is Alex’s answer.

“Hi,” he tries again, breathless and leaning into the strong lines of Michael’s body.

Michael runs a fond hand through Alex’s hair, tucking tickling strands behind his ear where they are growing out past regulation. “Hi,” he chuckles.

“What’s this?” Alex asks, looking around the kitchen at the romantic scene Michael has prepared for them. “Did I forget our anniversary?”

“I think we’ve got more than an anniversary to celebrate thanks to you,” Michael says with a brush of a kiss to the corner of Alex’s mouth. It immediately becomes something more, something deeper, until Alex’s toes are curling and his bones feel like they are vibrating and all he wants is _skin_.

“Do I have time to change?” Michael’s cooking has fast become one of Alex’s favorite things and he’ll never turn down the effort made when he knows how precious this new slice of domesticity is to Michael. He _does_ have an ulterior motive though… if he has time to change, to strip out of his uniform, he’s absolutely certain he can distract Michael long enough to suck his brains out his dick.

“Yeah,” Michael breathes, dazed. His hand’s already found its way to Alex’s ass and it squeezes almost without thought.

Oh yeah, Alex can absolutely get him to rumple that suit a little.

“No, wait,” Michael says, abruptly jerking himself into focus. “I gotta… or I’ll freak out. Fuck.” He drags his hand through his hair, disturbing the rest of tamed curls and knocking a pair of ringlets to fall in front of his eye.

“You okay?” Alex asks, reaching up and brushing them back.

The smile Michael gives him is bright enough to give birth to whole galaxies. “Yeah,” he says luminously, reaching into his pocket and taking a long, steadying breath. “Yeah, I think so.”

He sinks down to one knee, and it takes Alex whole lifetimes to understand that he’s there for one reason and one reason only.

In Alex’s defense, he’s never dared to even dream that someone might do this.

“So like, I’m totally prefacing this by saying that there is zero rush. I know that things have been intense and crazy and you died and I nearly got dissected and now you’re like the head of MiB…” Michael’s rambling has always been endearing, but Alex has never once feared for the damage it might do to his heart. “I know that we’ve only been us for like… two weeks. But we haven’t. Not really. It’s been you forever. _It will be you forever_. So whether it’s today or tomorrow or a year from now or ten years from now, just…” he takes Alex’s hand in his own, his grip solid and sure. “Marry me, Alex?”

This is a disassociation of a different kind. One that draws him dancing into a spiral of lights and flood him with champagne bubble giddiness.

Michael’s right, they have only been this for a fraction of their lives, but they’ve been _them_ forever. They are, and always will be. They’ve collided like two planets out of orbit and exploded into a supernova, something undefined by fate yet ordained by the cosmos.

There are a million words Alex can say right now. A million ways to tell him _yes_ , and _forever_ , and _always_.

What Alex says is, “Will the chili be okay on the stove?”

Michael, who has just poured his heart out, blinks in battered bewilderment. “I guess so?” The supernova threatens to blink into a black hole.

Alex grabs him by the lapels of his suit and hauls him to his feet, strength found in desperation, one underlined by the moan he drags from Michael’s mouth as he slams them together.

Fuck, he needs to get better with words.

Michael’s hands grab his shoulders, holding Alex firm even as Alex tries to find a way to crawl inside him and never leave. “Is-“ he struggles to get a word out between the insistent demand of Alex’s lips, “that a yes?”

Alex pulls back and shoves Michael into the bedroom, one hand already pulling at his jacket. “It’s a fuck you, yes,” he says, kissing Michael again before he can complain. “I’m never gonna keep up with your romantic fucking ass. First, you tell me you love me, then you tell me you’re turning your back on the stars, then you fucking propose. How the hell am I supposed to compete with that?”

“Dude,” Michael blinks, “you got in a fight with the fucking government to save my ass. Short of battling any incoming space pirates, you got me beat forever.”

“You got me roses,” Alex sniffs. “You cooked. You’re never wearing that suit out the house, by the way,” he adds. If anyone else sees Micahel looking so beautiful, Alex will be honor bound to drop kick them off a bridge.

Michael pretends to look thoughtful. “I mean if you want me to turn up to our wedding naked- oomph!”

He bounces onto the mattress as Alex gets his shirt off and doesn’t get the chance to get back up again. Alex covers him, head to toe, and it’s not skin to skin, not _yet_ , but it’s almost there, a fraction away from perfect.

“Wait!” Michael yells, freezing Alex’s hands on his tie. “Don’t you want-“

He holds up his hand and turns a simple gold band up to catch the flickering candlelight. There’s a symbol etched on the surface, one of the ones from Michael’s home planet.

Alex touches it with trembling, reverent hands, lets Michael slide it onto his finger and slot the final missing piece of his heart into place.

“Family,” he says, touching the delicate etching. “It means family.”

Alex kisses him again, softer now, his whole being given over to Michael’s safe, caring hands. “It means you’re my family,” Alex agrees.

“Always,” Michael promises.

 


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go! I suppose now is the time to say that there will be another story in this universe - we still have to deal with the whole Rosa/Caulfield/Noah plotlines from the first series, and I Have Plans for how things might develop beyond that. I will be taking a break to focus on some other stories, but we will be back!

Michael wakes to the wander of Alex’s lips across his stomach. It’s a sleepy, tender progression of kisses that slowly climbs up to his collarbones and neck. By the time he reaches Michael’s mouth, it’s to find a smile waiting for him.

“Hmm, morning,” Alex doesn’t stop his lazy exploration of Michael’s throat and lets his palm slide across his stomach, warm and undemanding.

Last night ranks as both the best night of his life and the most embarrassing.

Alex is gonna marry him. He’s wearing the ring Michael bought for him on his finger and the metal is currently warm against his chest. Nothing can ever top that. They’re getting married.

That counts as the best.

The most embarrassing part is something that’s snuck in, insidious and fucking mortifying, turning an act that is one of Michael’s favorite things in the world - giving Alex a blowjob - into something dark and fearful that has no place at all in their bedroom. Even now, his cheeks warm remembering the blackhole tumble of panic that followed the familiar excitement of taking Alex apart with his mouth. The safety of their bedroom becomes the cold, clinical brightness of the lab and all Michael can think about is that he can’t _breathe_.

Michael opens his eyes and rolls Alex beneath him, his hands sliding their way down Alex’s right thigh until they curve over his knee. “Sore?” he asks, carefully feeling the heat rising from tender, bruised muscles.

Alex’s response to Michael’s panic right in the middle of what should be the most romantic moment of their lives is to throw himself down onto the ground beside him, a howl of pain following an awkward landing.

So yeah, instead of funny, romantic sexy times, they had Michael hyperventilating and Alex almost delirious with pain, the two of them clinging to each other until panic receded and Michael abruptly burst into uncontrollable laughter.

So maybe they jumped a bit too quickly into the ‘ _we’re fine let’s fuck_ ’ stage of whatever stilted trauma recovery they’re undergoing together. Cuddling’s good too. Alex is _supremely_ cuddly for a guy with such sharp elbows.

“Not massively,” Alex shakes his head, content to sprawl over the pillows like a model escaped from a renaissance painting and let Michael dig his fingers carefully into abused muscles. “Hmm, that’s good.”

“You’re basically a cat, aren’t you?” Michael surmises. Likes to nap in the sun, exceptionally irritable when woken, capable of no small amount of destruction...

Alex’s response is to arch his spine in a distinctly feline way, slender muscles rippling with the movement until he’s upright and sat in Michael’s lap. “Hi,” he says again, a proper good morning kiss bestowed on the world’s most eager recipient. He rolls his shoulders against the span of Michael’s hands and sinks his fingers into curls he is never going to be able to untangle and doesn’t seem to care that Micheal is uncomfortably hard against him.

“Question,” Alex asks, nipping teasingly at Michael’s bottom lip with his teeth. “How’d you feel about my mouth on your cock?” The alarm clock on the bedside cabinet goes sailing across the room. “That’s a positive…?” Oh, fuck yes that’s a positive, only… Alex touches his lips before he can speak, silencing the words he seems to know are on the tip of Michael’s tongue. “I do have to get to work,” he whispers, his other hand sneaking down between them to curl teasingly around him, “so you’ll have to make it quick. Fuck my mouth real hard. Of course, that means I’m gonna have to spend all day aching for you. Maybe I’ll entertain myself with the thought of opening you up with my tongue when I get home? Get you all wet and needy, make you squirm before I fuck you.”

There’s a loud thud which might be the sound of the kitchen table overturning, but it’s quickly drowned out by the unbearably pathetic whine that escapes Michael’s mouth.

“I know you said you gotta use your words more,” Michael forces the words out instead of doing something stupid like trying take him in his mouth and worship him again, “but fuck, Alex, you can’t fucking…. _fuck_ you’re gonna kill me. I’m gonna _die_.”

All the fucking ways for Alex to find his skills of communication…

Michael can see what he’s doing, and he loves Alex for it, fiercely. There are plenty of other things they can do together that aren’t going to trigger a panic attack. Maybe they can use this as an excuse to find some more?

Silver fucking linings.

“If you want to shut me up,” Alex says slyly, “you know what you gotta do.”

Yep. He’s gonna die. He’s gonna die, and it’s going to say ‘ _Alex’s Manes’s filthy fucking mouth_ ’ on his death certificate.

He puts his hands on his hips to help steady Alex as he moves. “Best get a fucking move on then, Private.” He knows that’ll make Alex grumble and he can’t help the grin on his face as he helps Alex get comfortable on the bed.

“Shut up and put your dick in my mouth, Guerin” Alex fires back.

Michael makes a point of sighing dramatically before doing exactly as he’s told. “And they say romance is dead.”

 

* * *

 

 

The downside to thinking he’s in any way got the high ground on the guy who plays fucking war-games for a living is that while Alex might be spending the day semi-hard and thinking about Michael’s ass, Michael is in exactly the same fucking boat.

It’s made worse when Alex sends him a message early afternoon: _Isobel wants to get us ‘totally non-celebratory drinks’ at the Pony tonight. I told her yes if she stops sending flowers. We’re going. She’s probably still gonna send them._

Thirty seconds later, a second message follows: _don’t worry, I’ve not forgotten my promise._

Michael’s already had to repair the kitchen table from this morning’s excitement. If Alex keeps this shit up he’s going to have to start nailing everything down.

But fine. Two can play this game. Michael has exactly two secret weapons: there are the jeans that make his ass look awesome, and then there are the jeans that are so soft and worn they’re held together with little more than hope.

Alex has told him more than once that wearing them out of the cabin is practically asking Max to arrest him for indecent exposure. The few times he wears them in the cabin, he always gets an orgasm out of it.

So those jeans, and the white sweater that’s just a little too neat in the shoulders.

 _Fuck you, Alex_ , he thinks. He wants to play dirty? Michael can play dirty.

 

* * *

 

 

Michael’s the last to arrive. Max and Isobel have already commandeered a table and they wave around the wall of bodies that are Valenti, Carlos, and Blackburn.

Alex is wearing tight black jeans and a brand new leather jacket.

“Fuck you, Manes!” Michael yells, throwing his hands in the air. “That’s not fair!”

How the hell did he ever think Alex sweet and gentle? He’s a fucking _asshole_ , is what he is. An asshole whose lips look soft and plump and who has no fucking right at all to look as good as he does.

Alex shoots him a look of wounded innocence and seriously, _seriously_ , Michael’s going to get arrested for more than just indecent exposure at this rate.

“Is that any way to talk to your fiancé?” he asks sweetly.

Max and Valenti both choke on a mouthful of beer.

“Oh come on,” Isobel rolls her eyes, “everyone knew it was gonna happen. Keep up!” She winks at Michael and he writes a promise to keep her shrieks of excitement to himself in an answering grin.

“Congrats, man,” Valenti salutes with his bottle, a soft look sent in Alex’s direction that’s a shade sadder than Michael expects. He doesn’t get up to hug Alex the way he’s currently being half smothered to death by Carlos and Michael wonders if he’s still afraid of Alex’s rejection.

Max’s arms slide around him in a way they haven’t in nearly ten years. He holds Michael firm, the warmth of his skin easing a chill Michael hasn’t even realized existed. There’s nothing desperate or life-affirming in this embrace, just one brother radiantly happy for another.

Michael hugs him back just as tightly.

“Dude,” Michael steps reluctantly from Max’s arms in time to see Alex wriggle his way free from Carlos’s. “Are you crying?” he asks Blackburn, who is suspiciously silent.

“No,” Blackburn says mulishly.

Alex’s grin is positively devilish. “You fucking are!”

“Fuck you,” Blackburn scrubs a hand over his face - he really is crying.

“Fuck you back,” Alex responds, grabbing Blackburn’s shoulder and throwing an arm around him.

“That means _‘I love you_ ’ and ‘ _I love you too_ ’ in SpecOps,” Michael translates for Max, who rolls his eyes, well aware of the subtext.

“You can all sit your asses down,” DeLuca says, appearing with a tray of glasses on one hand and an ice bucket braced against her hip. “I’ve been waiting to open this damn bottle for a decade,” she surprises Michael by dropping a kiss to his cheek as she passes.

Alex is laughing as he takes the bucket from her and inspects what’s inside. “You’ve had champagne waiting around since-“

“Since you told me about museum guy,” she says, smiling proudly, “I always knew you were gonna marry him.” The looks she then shoots at Michael is a whole lot fonder than any he’s been sent from her in the past. “Of course, if I’d known it was Guerin-“

“And what’s wrong with Michael?” Isobel demands, immediately triggering a back and forth between the two that’s been going on for as long as Michael can remember. He doesn’t wait to hear either response. Alex is holding Blackburn close, a hand on the side of his head gently keeping him in place while he whispers something in his ear. Blackburn nods and sniffles then steps around Alex to stare very seriously at Michael.

“If you hurt my brother, I will sneak into your house in the middle of the night with a knife and cut up your stupid cowboy hat,” he swears.

“Cross my heart,” Michael says, making the gesture. He knows who Alex’s family really are.

Blackburn smiles, the sun coming out from behind clouds. “We need another glass,” he announces, turning on his heel to address DeLuca and overbalancing. “Oh hi wow you’re pretty.”

DeLuca, who has suffered love-struck fools her whole adult life, pats Blackburn on the cheek. “Come be useful then, soldier,” she says, and he follows her like a puppy to the bar in search of more glasses.

“You don’t know where he’s been, Maria,” Alex calls after them.

Blackburn flips him the finger over his shoulder.

Now there is no one between them, Alex and Michael draw together like magnets. The bar is getting busy now, and Michael immediately watches Alex start to track people with his eyes, wary and with growing unease.

It’s why Michael keeps an arm firmly around his waist, and why he very pointedly puts him right in the very middle of the booth when they all take a seat. It means he doesn’t have a clear exit, but Michael is gambling on the fact that Alex is never going to make a run for it and leave him behind. It sends a definitive message that for once Alex needs to let them take care of _him_.

He’s given an entire monologue silently written in the line of Alex’s eyebrows. _Tough shit_ , he grins back. To get to Alex now you’d need to go through three aliens, two SpecOps soldiers, a doctor with a mean left hook and DeLuca.

“Relax,” Michael whispers against his ear. “DeLuca ain’t letting shit happen in her bar.” The woman in question arrives with a smile that softens when she sets eyes on Alex.

“Why the extra glass?” she asks, tucking a loose curl behind her ear and resting a hand on the back of the chair Blackburn slides into. He turns at the proximity and flashes her the most enormous smile.

Under Michael’s arm, Alex snorts in soft amusement.

“Lance,” Carlos’s deep, rumbling voice draws all their attention. The mood shifts, but surprisingly not to something negative. When they all have glasses of bubbling champagne and Max calls a toast in Michael and Alex’s honor, the three remaining members of Recon 9 tap the sides of their glasses with the one set on the table between them before they take a drink.

Alex lets himself lean more comfortably into Michael’s side, at ease now, the leather of his jacket butter soft under Michael’s hands.

Michael is absolutely going to have fun with that jacket when they’re in private.

Alex’s hand creeps on to Michael’s thigh, a tease and a brace for him to twist himself around and whisper, “What did I tell you about those jeans?”

“They’re your favorite?” Michael asks, his eyes on the back and forward banter unfolding around the table, but his whole body attuned to Alex.

“I’d fuck you in the parking lot right now if I thought DeLuca wouldn’t kill us both,” Alex says, smirking as Michael’s hand tightens around his hip. He presses a light little kiss to the side of Michael’s cheek, something that brings cheers and awws from their friends and covers him adding, “Don’t think I’ve forgotten my promise.” Asshole. Absolute fucking _asshole_.

“You fuckers are too cute,” Blackburn says dryly.

Michael takes advantage of their position at the back of the booth to slide his hand into the waistband of Alex’s jeans. “Oh we’re something alright,” he nods.

 

 


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The end of part one!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has followed this story. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and left kudos and generally made writing for this fandom a complete and utter delight. You've absolutely no idea how much your encouragement and kindness has meant to me. 
> 
> More adventures on the horizon. In the meantime, I am beamirang on tumblr so feel free to come and cry over pretty cowboy angst with me during the hiatus!
> 
> Bea xx

“The stars are up there,” Alex says without opening his eyes. They’ve been home for hours, nestled together under a blanket on the large swing bench on the back porch. Alex makes an exceptionally good pillow and with Micheal’s powers gently rocking them back and forward, they’ve both been dozing, warm and content. Alex, asleep and unguarded, is a sight far more precious to him than the stars; they will always be there, constant and vigilant. Michael has come too close to losing Alex too many times to ever take any second with him for granted. “You okay?”

“I’m good,” Michael says, pressing his nose to Alex’s throat. “You wanna go inside?”

“Hmm, I’m good here. You’re warm.” Yeah, he supposes he is. Alex, who is perpetually cold, clings to him like a limpet in bed, curling up behind Michael and warming his icy fingers against his chest. “Should’ve known, really.” Alex opens his eyes and suddenly Michael doesn’t have to look at the sky to see the stars; they’re all there, reflected back at him.

“Known what?” Rocking the bench has become almost an unconscious flex of his powers by now. They’re becoming easier to control, demanding less and less effort each time he uses them.

“What you are,” Alex says. “I might not have a ton of comparisons, but I’ve never been the big spoon for an actual radiator before.”

“Sometimes,” Michael admits, in no way put out by the reminder that he’s the little spoon because he _absolutely_ is and gives zero fucks what that says about him, “I can’t believe that you’re okay with this.”

“I don’t do well in the cold,” Alex says mildly.

“No, I mean-“

“I know what you mean,” Alex says, tightening his arms around him. “Look, I can’t even say I had time to really process it, and maybe that was a good thing. I didn’t have time to care. It came down to a question of whether or not I could live without you, and the details just didn’t matter.”

“It’s a bit more than a ‘detail’,” Michael says.

“Not really. You’re Michael. I love you. Where you came from, what you are? Doesn’t change anything.” A small laugh rumbles in his chest. “Actually, you crash-landing on the planet is a whole lot better reason for the three of you to be found wandering the desert naked than literally everything else I could think of.”

Michael snorts. “Fair.”

“I wanted to ask,” Alex admits.

“But you didn’t.”

“Some things you can’t put into words,” he says seriously, “and some things you shouldn’t try to.”

Michael finds Alex’s hand beneath the blanket and squeezes, his fingers tracing the metal ring around his finger. He knows Alex is talking about his father. The day in the toolshed, and Jesse Manes’s taunt to Michael ‘ _did he ever tell you what happened after?_ ’ “Maybe,” Michael says carefully, his gut clenching at the idea of Alex equating the two situations, “but if you ever wanted to try, you know I’d listen, right? Nothing you say is gonna change anything for me.”

“We’re talking about you, Guerin,” Alex says, ignoring the offer with nothing more than mild amusement.

He’s pretty sure Alex has told Nichols. Maybe it’s enough that one person knows? By this point, he’s sure that it’ll hurt Alex far more to talk about it than to not.

“Sure,” he says, letting Alex have his own way. Searching for a change in topic, he turns away from Alex’s face to the stars above them. They’re far enough out of town to have limited light pollution. “I used to hitch a ride out past Fosters Ranch,” he says, “look up at the stars, wonder which one I came from. I thought that if I just waited long enough then maybe someone would come for me.”

There’s not much wiggle room on the bench, but Alex is still able to crane his neck enough to drop a kiss to the top of Michael’s head.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that alone,” he whispers. “I know you were relieved Max and Isobel had it easier, but I _am_ sorry. I can’t imagine how lonely you must’ve been.”

“Lonely was easier,” Michael says. “Or safer, at least.”

“Did you ever tell them?” Alex asks. “About…” he runs the tips of his fingers along the length of Michael’s arm until they lightly brush a cluster of scars. They no longer resemble a cross - a blow torch and a fuckton of acetone has fixed that - but Alex knows the story.

“At first,” Michael admits. “A little. But Max is… he’s not got the most control, not when he’s angry. It was safer for everyone if I didn’t say anything.” He thinks if anyone can understand the circles he talked himself into in order to justify his silence, Alex can.

“What about Isobel?”

Michael shakes his head firmly. “Iz… she’s fragile. Vulnerable. This… she doesn’t need to deal with this.” And the part of Michael that refuses to be that beaten, frightened, angry child still very much needs his sister to think that he's strong.

“I think you’re underestimating her,” Alex says gently, still blissfully ignorant of the fact that he’s protecting two murderers and the man who covered it all up. Michael screws his eyes shut and presses tighter against Alex’s side.

Alex, thinking he’s upset him, makes a soothing sound in the back of his throat and reaches up to stroke Michael’s hair.

“I used to think these were the brightest stars in the world,” Alex says, drawing them back into a topic they both find safety in. “Then I went to the Middle East. I remember this one time we’d run hot on a supply run, and I fucked my ankle pretty bad so they dosed me up on morphine. Blackburn broke me out of the blue wing and we got fucked on cheap whiskey in the middle of the airstrip. Nichols was furious,” he laughs, “but I got like a solid two hours of hallucinations and I thought the stars were alive. Apparently, I sang a very colorful shanty about Ursa Minor trying to woo Canis Major.”

“Did she pull it off?” Michael laughs into his neck.

“No idea,” Alex chuckles. “We got thrown in the Brig and I threw up on a seagull Colonel’s boots before I could finish.”

“What the fuck is a seagull colonel?”

Alex waves a hand descriptively. “You know, one of those dicks who comes in and makes a lot of noise and shits on everything.” Michael presses a grin against his shoulder and the two of them slip back into a comfortable silence. There's a great deal of horror and misery attached to Alex's enlistment, but Michael thinks that if he can focus on the positives, then maybe he can let go of some of the guilt. 

He’s just about convinced that Alex has fallen asleep again when he says, “That one,” and points towards the heavens. “That one is yours.” Michael follows the line of his finger to a bright point on the horizon.

Maybe ten years ago, Michael might’ve done otherwise, but today he reaches up and cups Alex’s cheek. “Nah,” he says, pushing up to brush the lightest of kisses across Alex’s smiling mouth, “this one is mine.”

Few things bring him more pleasure than watching a bashful blush spread across Alex’s cheeks. He’s expecting a teasing response, something coy maybe, or a comment on Michael’s ongoing endeavor to be the most romantic motherfucker on the planet. Instead, Alex captures him before he can sink back down against his shoulder and looks directly into his soul.

“Always,” he vows.

Blackburn’s right. They really are fucking cute. A part of him thinks he should be horrified at just how deep down the well he’s fallen, but the truth is simply that he’s in love, and all the great epic poems fail to do justice to the sheer gravity of what that means.

By this point, he thinks they’re probably going to end up spending the whole night out here, and he doesn’t even care. They’re warm enough, and Alex seems to be comfortable - Michael knows he is - and neither of them has any place they need to be tomorrow.

There’s a lot they need to do. A lot Alex has to deal with that Michael will help him shoulder as best he can, but for now they can rest.

He’s just about settled in for the long haul when Alex’s phone buzzes loudly.

They both pull faces and Michael stops the swinging of the bench long enough for Alex to wiggle his phone out of his pocket.

“Holy shit,” he says, checking the message on the screen.

“What?” That doesn’t sound like the ‘ _holy shit_ ’ of someone who’s just heard the secret government operation they run has exploded, or who has learned of an incoming alien invasion, but knowing their luck?

“You’ll never guess who’s back in town,” Alex says, slipping the phone back in his pocket and allowing Michael to tuck the blankets around them again.

“Who?” No alien invasion, no reason for Alex to leave and go to work. He can work with anything else.

Alex snuggles in closer and wraps both his arms back around Michael, settling in for the rest of the night.

“Liz Ortecho.”

 

 

 


End file.
